


Absinthium

by Hereticality



Category: Sofia the First (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Transformation, Be Careful What You Wish For, Codependency, Drama & Romance, Familiars, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, POV Alternating, Shapeshifting, Slow Build, Symbolism, Villains, cedfia friendship, cedwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-27 23:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 117,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5068441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hereticality/pseuds/Hereticality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end summer, during the most persistent spell of bad weather the kingdom has seen in a while, Wormwood the Raven makes a wish into the old Wishing Well in the back garden: to become a human sorcerer of great power. But all wishes have a price, and the price he pays might be greater than he had imagined. A spell is broken; another is activated after having lain dormant for three whole decades. A great evil is unleashed, and difficult choices lie ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bramble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wormwood makes his first wish. Cedric is more at peace than he'll be for a while.

The rain has stopped.

For the past ten minutes or so, the light pitter-patter of drops against glass has been Wormwood's only company as he slowly pried open the higher workshop window with his beak and talons.

He sits on the windowsill to rest for a moment, and preen his feathers back into shape. His coat is still ruffled in some spots, from the rough way Cedric grabbed him not long ago. He breathes in the heavy air of the last days of summer, the smell of petrichor and wet grass, and lets out a forceful exhale, as though along with the dust that greys his black feathers, he could shake off the irritation he feels. The damp breeze lets itself in, flurrying the first fallen leaves of the season right in his face.

He tilts his head, listening for calls in the distance, eyes closed. Animal sounds: the swans' chatter in their fountain, the serenade of silly songbirds across the steely sky, and the distant shriek of the harriers soaring high up, way higher than the reach of his territory. Then, rustling in the woods, busy squirrels and incautious deer wading through the river. Kicking and flapping of winged horses in their stables.

Closer, human sounds: the kitchen staff's usual bustling, with its plethora of complaints and wishful musings; all the way down to the gardens and vegetable plots, where the servants work and gather and sweep wet leaves from the courtyard, cleaning up for the Equinox feast. He can hear them complain, complain, complain: _been so rainy, this summer, hasn’t it? Rotted out the whole harvest―and everything up in the front garden, too!_ And _oh, the Steward just skipped off on a day of preparations! How are we going to prepare the feast, this year?_ Wormwood rolls his eyes. He has very little care for these matters―though the can always spare a grin for Baileywick getting badmouthed, of course. This is all between the humans, and no concern of his.

More importantly, he hears no challenging caw of rival ravens, and no grating mew of passing seagulls either. The afternoon sun sinks undisturbed on Wormwood's turf, and all seems well. Satisfied, feeling a tad calmer, he stretches his black wings open, and dives.

He lets himself free-fall down the tower, just to feel the air curve into the contours of his body. When the ground rushes close enough, he twirls and glides forward, barely grazing the shiny wet cobblestones and then pushing back up in vigorous wingstrokes, a triumphant caw in his throat. He flies in a wide circle, overseeing the whole of his territory twice, before he sets off in search of food.

The late afternoon is mild, it seems that the rain is going to relent―for the first time this whole week―and, though he was busy sulking, now he's starting to get hungry.

Living his whole life as a companion, Wormwood knows he has grown spoiled. He's free to fetch his own meals whenever he feels like it―yet he let himself grow accustomed to eating when food is offered. Nearing dinnertime, with only the light breakfast he shared with Cedric to sustain him, his stomach started protesting the long hours he spent taking his annoyance out on the workshop.

Cedric isn't home. He went with Princess Sofia and half a dozen other brats to the place called _Mystic Meadows_ , the elite retirement home for sorcerers.

For a while, Wormwood had imagined actual meadows, and promptly lost all interest in coming along in the future when he saw simple human settlements instead. The place felt crowded, and Cedric complained the whole time about that Family Wand of his, and some old hag tried to change the colour of Wormwood’s feathers to match the season... he feels his energy drain at the mere memory. _Cedric can go by himself if he plans to retire there_ , he thinks. _Nevermore_.

As he flies round the high cliffs of the island, though, he's already reconsidering. The days of solitude he'd have to endure would be enough, and then there’s the _ache_. The pangs, the swollen joints, the slight damp stiffness in his old wings. Once more, it all reminds him that Cedric won't retire for at least a few decades, and Wormwood most certainly won't live to see it.

Everything considered, he rethinks, if there will be a way for him to live long enough, he'd gladly follow Cedric to any place he decides to retire to.

Cedric didn't bother asking him if he wanted to come along, this time. He knows Wormwood takes pride in his little scraps of independence, and that both his tolerance for solitude and his laziness have grown over the years. Also, Wormwood was cross with him about the grabbing, and flew out of sight.

In his younger years he had lied to himself: he wanted to believe domestication was only for mutts on a leash, docile horses that hold their kicks, and fluffy Wassalia owlets given as no more than magic trinkets to play with. He wonders if others, like him, ended up learning how to read by staying by their human's side as he practiced and practiced, hoping one day he'll stop stuttering his spells. He wonders if anyone else's human made a habit of procuring and reading aloud all the books he could find about Wormwood’s species.

Ravens don’t learn that way, for sure. The ravens they read about in stories were always free and wild. No story they could find had a raven foundling whose first memories could all be contained in the little circle of a child's hands. Hands cleaning him, feeding him, keeping him safe in their careful hold; hands gathering him close to the loud, slow heartbeat that warmed his first nights, reminiscent of a nest he must have known in his even younger days, of the downy chest of a mother he'll never know, not even in memories.

By the time he was old enough to read about imprinting, Cedric had already taught him to fly, with the aid of a tweaked broomstick―a _Ravencatcher_ , ironically, as the witches call them―and Wormwood's anxious heart that couldn't bear to be left earth-bound. Cedric taught him to play chess and checkers and cards, and never lost the habit of feeding him from his hands. He never thought ill of him when he trashed rooms if left by himself for five minutes.

Nowadays, Wormwood enjoys a bit of time alone in the tower every now and then, content to just read for as long as his concentration lasts. When he goes out, Cedric usually locks the windows too, so that the noise outside won't bother the raven and the latches will keep him entertained for a while if he wishes to go out.

Even through his indignation after the new attempt to experiment on him, it took only a couple of hours for the silence to grow bigger than he could bear, for the old fear to sink its icy talons in―and he found himself muttering and pecking at the first thing in sight. In the span of the afternoon, he has gone through a few throw pillows, dismantled the ground-level bookcase―he's finally found a way to pry out screws with his beak―and added some more personal carvings to the still magically enlarged hardwood desk.

That kind of damage takes nothing to fix with magic anyway, and today he thoroughly _doesn't care_. If Cedric minds when he comes back, he had it coming. Why would he want a giant version of him, anyway? Where would he put him? In the stables? Ride him into non-existent battles? He lets out a wistful, grumbling sigh, shaking his head.

“ _Same old Cedric_ ,” he says aloud, imitating the King's voice. If the sorcerer were with him, he would leap in his chair... if only he could understand a word Wormwood squawks, of course.

The hunger is really starting to bother him, now. He considers his options, and realizes he's actually craving some thorny blackberries, the small wild kind that grows in loose brambles here and there in the back gardens. A quick recon of his favourite spots is enough to tell him that, to his disappointment, none has any fruit left. They must have been picked already… surely to be wasted in some sugary abomination, down in the kitchens.

 _Oh well_ , he thinks. They're never as good when he eats them by himself, anyway.

Muttering out loud, he flies above the maze to check the fruit trees that grow there, in hopeful search of some other thing to snack on. The farther from the castle, the least tended the vegetation is, so there's hope for something left unpicked.

Only as a vague reminiscence, he knows the area hasn't been tended to in more than a decade because there, somewhere, the first Queen is taking her eternal rest. By word of the King, access has long been forbidden. Not interested in either botany or hidden graves, Wormwood doesn't visit this part of the gardens often. Yet, the overgrown hedges under him have started to look… oddly familiar.

Before he knows it, he's faced with a round clearing, surrounded by tall laurels and an old chestnut tree. The semi-invisible path leading to the area is blocked to the non-winged by a small gate with three rusty padlocks. He just flies above, following the glint of gold that catches the waning light, letting himself be lead to the centre of the clearing.

Wormwood has been here before. He has already seen that old well, hidden away in the forgotten part of the gardens, no windlass and no bucket, only a single white bench. Intrigued, he flutters nearer to investigate.

He saw it for the first time the day the pesky Princess got herself transformed into a cat, he remembers. He did his best to swipe the Amulet from her while she was in such approachable form―he was already picturing Cedric's ecstatic praise, his song of pure joy as they finally implemented their plans of conquest.

Wormwood had wished with all his wicked heart to be the one to bring the power to him. Oh, how glorious it would have been! Instead, all he got that day were so many slams in the face he had to give up, and go back with an aching bill and no Amulet.

He had flown straight into Cedric's arms instead of his shoulder, and for a while he refused to leave his lap no matter how the sorcerer whined at him to move and let him get up. Wormwood had vented about what happened, though he knew Cedric could only hear him caw and squawk. It made for the perfect sulking spot, at least, with the warm folds of robe under his bruised feet and belly, forehead pressed hard into Cedric's tied belt.

If he had managed to take the Amulet, he thought bitterly, at least they could have talked. But in the end, from the pitch of his voice Cedric had got the hint that something had gone wrong in Wormwood's day. His hands, so used to precise gestures, could be so delicate as they carded through his hackles, fixing his dishevelled plumage for him and cooing at him the way he used to do when they both were much younger. He even apologised for shooing him out of the tower, devoting to him the entirety of his attention. _Why don't I ask for this more often_ , Wormwood remembers asking himself, aches easing and mind going soft and hazy.

It's been a while since that time, he considers while landing onto the well's steep roof, so neglected it looks like it's held together only by the creepers that grow on it.

These days, all the attention Wormwood gets are attempts at duplicating or resizing him and whatnot. He takes pride in his collected demeanour, but constantly having to watch his back in his own home is really starting to rattle him. The wooden boards of the roof creak under his talons as he hops down to the stone edge, angling his head to better take in the wide golden slab that covers the mouth of the old well. He studies the slab, sculpted in the stylised likeness of a human face, with mild interest.

He's just noticing how the rays around the edge remind him vaguely of the golden sun on the workshop's wall, when the metal eyelids on the slab pull up, like those of a mechanical doll, and inexpressive gold eyes follow his movement as he leaps back in alarm.

“Oh, what a stupid trick,” he caws reproachfully at it, wing pressed to his heart. Some residual magic must be in there, he reasons, for it to move when someone approaches.

“It is no trick,” says a voice, making him leap again. It is a soft, high monotone voice that undoubtedly came from the well itself. "Give me your riches, and I'll grant you three wishes."

Wormwood, hackles rising at the eerie echo and overly polite tone of the voice, takes a moment to connect the dots. So _this_ is how the Princess got herself transformed. Some magic is _definitely_ in there, then… but how powerful?

 _Let’s find out,_ he thinks, intrigued.

“Hello again, Wishing Well,” he probes, with a cautious tilt of his head.

“I prefer the term _Wish-granting Water Feature_ ,” the Well says, still pleasant, but with a hint of petulance. Wormwood narrows his eyes at the thing, as it repeats its offer.

“I heard you the first time,” he scoffs. Then, opening his wings in the human expression of helplessness, and mimicking the face Cedric makes when he attempts to whine his way out of doing something, he laments, “Alas! I am but a poor old crow, I hold no riches of my own.”

“Anything can count as riches, as long as it holds value for the giver.”

 _Not so difficult to play then, hm?_ Wormwood thinks, suppressing a haughty sneer. _I just made it explain one of its rules._

Somewhat intrigued, he peruses his left wing in search of the loose feather he felt earlier. It is easily plucked, and he watches it flutter down into the Well's mouth and disappear into the black unknown underneath―a part of himself he'll never see again.

Shaking off the sudden unease that crept up his spine, he sets to test if the thing actually works. Wishing for a snack should be harmless enough, he reasons, and very practical. But, while he's at it, why not build a source that will solve the issue indefinitely?

“I wish a bramble of thorny blackberries grew right there,” he says indifferently, pointing with his wing at the hedge surrounding the Well, right next to the chestnut tree. “One that bears the most delicious blackberries in the whole kingdom, every season of every year, for all years to come.”

A bright golden glow flares through the slab, so intense the raven has to shield his eyes.

“Your wish,” the Well says in the same mechanical monotone, “has been granted.”

In a flurry of sparkles and dots of glowing light, breaking the soil and snaking its way up the chestnut tree and part of the hedge, a magnificent dark green climber appears.

After a moment, under Wormwood's intrigued gaze, the coiling canes start vibrating and then, with a noise like kernels popping, sprout fruit by the hundred. They are so big and full the green canes all curve downwards under the weight. Wormwood's stomach gives an approving rumble.

Filled with pure animal contentment, he flutters to the hedge and digs in, eating his absolute fill. Thorny blackberries were always his favourite, but these are something else―sweet and juicy and delicious, just what he needed.

Cedric could use some too, he decides. Belly filled and mood greatly improved, he only misses the warm comforts of home, and bringing back a gift has always been a sure-fire way to win himself some. And also, though he knows himself to be of resentful character… he could never _really_ stay mad at Cedric for long.

Quickly and efficiently, he nips off five or six of the most loaded tendrils; he then grabs an empty one, and stripping it of its leaves and stems, obtains makeshift string to tie off the ends of the others.

Cedric is, after all, very fond of gifts and sweet things. Not to mention he will be in a state of pure misery after a _whole_ day with his father―and after being denied the Family Wand for the umpteenth time. Wormwood shakes his head at the thought, setting off in the cooling night and its promise of more rain, his little bouquet of fruit secured in the grip of his talons.

Like every year, as he ignores the vague call of migration in his bones, he already looks forward to the small space heater Cedric throws wood in to keep them warm.

* * *

 Cedric lets his gaze wander, unfocused, out the open carriage and into the black sky, made indistinguishable by the night from the land and forest below. He keeps his chin propped on one hand, so that the small army of brats won't see him smiling too much.

They aren't paying attention to him anyway, occupied with updating Sofia on their day's adventures in an overexcited, chaotic ramble, each trying to finish before they reach the village. He sits on the far left, squeezed between one of the twins and the door. For once, he doesn't quite mind.

In the spacious breast pocket of his robe, resting among the keys and scraps of parchment he always forgets to organize, sits the Family Wand.

Its slight curve seems to mould to his chest, rough bark-like texture digging a bit into his skin through his vest and shirt. This, as well, he doesn't mind. It’s a matter of getting used to it, and _finally_ wielding the Wand is more than worth the discomfort, he muses, recalling the raw power that ran through his arm as he conjured those fireworks.  He thought the Wand would feel heavier, so imbued with memories and reverence, precious memento that touched six other hands before finally, _finally_ gracing his own.

His whole mind is a haze of _finally_. He lets out a blissful sigh, heart light as a feather, full of his father's voice calling him _my son, Cedric the Sensational_. The alien warmth of Father's embrace has taken root in his stomach, where it lingers and threatens to move him to tears right there with everyone watching.

As soon as they land in the village, the troop scampers off the carriage before Baileywick can even rise to help them, waving and shouting goodbyes. The Steward, shaking his head fondly, climbs back in the coachman's seat.

Princess Sofia instead, only remaining passenger other than Cedric, is quick to switch seats; she bounces down at his side and smiles up at him, swinging her feet.

“So,” she says, giving him two excited thumbs-ups, “we did it, Mr. Cedric! How does it feel?”

“I―” he tries, his voice fluttering with elation, hand alighting to the wand laid upon his heart. “I’m so happy, Princess. I cannot thank you enough.”

Sofia beams, and draws her arms around his side in a half-hug of triumph. Then, her bright smile rounds into a wide commoner's yawn.

"Sleepy, are we?" Cedric coos, amused.

"Hm, too much adventure for a single day," Sofia giggles, a hand covering her mouth. Still, in the quick rest of children, her eyes are already starting to droop. “Do you mind if I just...?”

As the carriage covers the short distance of sea and forest separating the village from the castle, Sofia pulls her legs up on the seat and, still burrowed into Cedric's side, lays her head down to rest.

Cedric holds very still, almost frozen in place. It's such a peculiar feeling, the pressure of her sturdy little skull into his ribcage, her soft hair tumbling down his front. She is very warm: the gentle grasp of her arms around him feels like the radiance of a bubbling cauldron. Hesitantly, he lowers his right arm, barely balancing his wrist on the tip of her shoulder. Sofia hums happily, half-asleep.

He can't help but glance down, to the Amulet dangling unguardedly from her neck, right into his lap. It occurs to him that, taken with the Wand as he has been, an entire day has passed without the Amulet crossing his mind. It must be the first time in… two years, at least, he thinks with amazement. He fixes his gaze on it, waiting for the rush of temptation to run through him.

There is nothing. The ambitions and resolves that have kept him company for thirty years... are nowhere to be found.

The warmth of his father's arms has taken the place of the inextricable tangle of rancour and longing in his stomach―and all his ambitions have been pushed somewhere where he can't find them. Today, the coveted Wand in his breast pocket, his heart is filled with immense, chilling completeness. He feels like he is floating away, looking down at the stranger sitting in his body, flying home. Who is he, if he doesn't want the Amulet, if he doesn't need this kingdom to be happy…?

By the time they land he feels so lost that, as she rests against his side like a downy nestling, Sofia's gentle hold is all that is keeping him anchored.

Without Sofia's help, he would still be nothing in everyone's eyes: she spoke highly of him in front of his father, helped him save face on so many occasions… she literally hauled him to his feet, when all he wanted to do was lay down until the couch swallowed him. For reasons he cannot fathom, she's always the one to take his side, convincing others to see the value of his work, even his own parents.

He was always a lonesome child, friend only to the birds and the sea and his own thoughts, an outcast to his peers and stranger even to his own sister. With the passing of the years, as tempered metal that cools and hardens, his melancholy turned to contempt. Is this what it feels like, to have someone on his side, someone who will listen when he has a problem, someone who asks what kind of solution he would need? To have a… a _friend_?

He wants to wake Sofia, but he doesn't quite know how. He hesitates, awkward, with the child still draped over him. Baileywick has to come pluck his sleeve out of the way, and take Sofia in his arms.

“G'night,” Sofia mumbles, hand flopping in a half-wave on the Steward's shoulder.

“Goodnight, Princess,” Cedric replies, so quietly she can’t possibly have heard him.

He hops off the carriage with his hand buried in his breast pocket, grasping the Family Wand to assure himself it's still there. He watches Baileywick, with the Princess in his arms, walk towards the castle. The tall towers look surreal, with the windows lit against the night like candles in a dark room. He always considered it his second home, but somehow, somewhere along the way… it might have become his only one _._

 _My future stronghold and domain,_ he tells himself, with the rehearsed certainty of daily affirmations. _Yes. Because I'm meant to be._ But now, even his inner voice stutters, and sounds as grating and insecure as his external one. He clenches the Wand tighter.

The coachman drives away, to get the horses fed and settled for the night. He is left in the dark on the empty landing pad, as a distant thunder rumbles softly and the intermittent drizzle of the past days starts to fall once more.

Grown a bit colder, he buries his hands in his sleeves, and hurries to his tower.

* * *

 Sitting high on his perch and feeling very accomplished, Wormwood preens his feathers and ignores the wreckage that surrounds him.

He has put the fruit on Cedric's nightstand, ready for him to find. Reaching for that one achy spot on his back, he's just starting to wonder how long is he going to take―and right then he hears Cedric's unmistakeable steps up the stairs. Unless he's in a hurry, or too absorbed into something else to notice, Cedric never makes much noise when moving around. When he runs, though―Wormwood can hear him take the stairs two at a time―his heels clack distinctively, like the clop of graceful hooves on the cobblestones just under their windows.

The last three steps come in quick succession, then Cedric bangs the door open with such flare that two flasks and a beaker dance to the edge of the cabinet and shatter to the floor. Nor man or bird acknowledge it, unnoticed in the compound mess Cedric's scatterbrain habits and Wormwood's occasional mischief regularly make of the workshop.

“Behold, Wormy!” Cedric squeals, his voice as high-pitched with excitement as a robin's morning call.

In a triumphant gesture, he lifts a short white branch up high above his head. It takes Wormwood a moment to recognise it, but when he does his wings splay in incredulity, and he's unable to suppress a loud gasp.

“The _Family Wand_! At last, at last it's in my hands!”

Wormwood throws an intrigued glance to the portrait above the escritoire, wondering if Cedric finally just pried the wand out of Goodwyn's cold death-grip.

A theory as entertaining as it is short lived, Wormwood soon realizes. Washing up and changing for bed, as Wormwood perches lazily on the edge of his basin, Cedric spins the day's tale.

It started out _terrible_ , just as the raven predicted. Yet, somehow―with the involvement of a contest―it ended up reaching an unexpected climax, with snowmen, and clapping, and public recognition.

“So, wait, you and your father almost _killed_ your mother and a bunch of other people?” Wormwood asks, unheard. Starting to regret not going and leaving all the fun to the Princess, he mutters, “Now _that_ would have been interesting to see.”

“And then, when we were leaving, Father came up to me and _hugged me_ ,” Cedric gasps, downing a glass of water in one gulp, eyes shining. “Can you believe it, Wormy?”

Wormwood, taking his role of audience very seriously, concedes him an awed caw.

“I know, right? I… can't believe it, either,” he says, with a soft, happy glow on his cheeks. “I can't believe the whole day happened.”

With a care that borders on reverence, Cedric carries the Wand to his bedroom. The furnishing of the Royal Sorcerer's chambers went unchanged for many generations, culminating in Goodwyn's gaudy taste. Everything―from the wardrobes and curtains to the shelving, down to the sturdy walnut bed-frame that looks a century old at least―was already there when they got to occupy it. Save for a few sketched designs and notes and half-finished contraptions littered around, Cedric hasn’t added anything of his.

Cedric lays the Wand on his nightstand, right next to Wormwood's berries. It holds perfectly upright, floating an inch from the surface and casting a dim glow all around, giving the luxurious room the gravity of a monk's cell. Weary with the day's adventures, Cedric leans his head against one of the solomonic columns that hold up the canopy, falling silent and gazing upon the Wand the way old Flamel has probably gazed upon the first Stone ever created. It makes for a very solemn sight.

Then, still engrossed in contemplation, Cedric paws for the fruit left there for him, without questioning its presence. He doesn't comment on its taste or girth, munching absentmindedly by the handful, until Wormwood pecks at his other hand in indignation.

Cedric yelps, “ _Ow,_ Wormy―oh, you've picked these? For me?”

He sounds so surprised, and Wormwood wants to roll his eyes because _really, who else?_ but instead he just nods, and fluffs up his mantel, complacent.

“Wormy, what would I do without you?”

“Slack off _even more_ , most probably,” Wormwood rebuts, still miffed. The sorcerer doesn't react, of course, and just goes on a bit longer, telling him more about his day.

Still talking, Cedric folds his knees under the covers and settles into bed, words slurring into his pillows, tongue as purple as his robe from the berry juice. His last sentence doesn't even end, it just kind of fades off in the middle. The raven heaves a sigh.

He's already deep into snoring and mumbling when Wormwood hops closer on the bed, set to peck him once more on the ear for paying barely any attention to him. But the sorcerer's pale face glows in the Wand's silvery radiance, happy tears wetting his eyelashes as dew on short blades of grass―and, after all, Wormwood can always peck him tomorrow to wake him up.

Thunder rumbles into the night sky, a distant echo of dying summer, and the noise of cloudburst fills the room in a heartbeat. Sieged by the water all around, they are alone, the two of them cut off from the rest of the castle. But they are together, and the tower protects them. A pleasant shiver through his old bones, the raven yawns with a gurgling whistle.

His feathers fluffed up in vex and tenderness, he flutters to the side of the headboard that he always uses as perch at night. The force of habit makes him shuffle around, until his feet find the grooves left by years of his strong taloned grip.

They should rest well, he thinks: tomorrow, their conquest begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten bucks it doesn't.
> 
> As always, shoutout to Bjomolf, the best beta in the Kingdom.
> 
> 4.5.17 NOTE: if you're a long-time reader, you might notice some slight changes. Most of this story is now pretty old, so I'm going through it tweaking stuff here and there. If you're reading for the first time, or giving a reread, comments are always super welcome!


	2. Seven Berries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the conquest doesn't begin, and Wormwood consumes his remaining wishes.

The day starts unforgiving, and from the very first few minutes Wormwood can tell their conquest is already postponed.

Cedric wakes up late. It takes him an unusually long time to get up, even with Wormwood screeching and spitting at the window, trying to intimidate the smug seagull outside.

“Oh, Father sent me the wand-case via night-express mail, how thoughtful,” Cedric says, stumbling out of bed to open the window, voice all scratchy from sleep and yet high with delight. He makes to take the package, but the post-bird lets out a loud mew and lunges at his hand. “And... it's pay on delivery. Of course. Just a moment.”

As Cedric sets to search his day clothes' pockets for coins, the seagull sneers and makes to step onto the inner windowsill like he owns the place. Wormwood bristles.

“Take another step in here and you can kiss your rectrices goodbye, seagull,” he hisses.

“Yeah? Tell that to my night shift, blackbird, I don't care,” the impudent retorts. He props the joint of his wing on the package and gestures rudely to Cedric. “And tell this idiot to get a move, will ya? Do I look like I got all day?”

Wormwood shoots forward like a black arrow, and after that it's only the noise of ripped feathers, loud cawing, and window slamming, and no amount of _stop it, stop it, dude, chill, I'm just doing my job_ _!_ is enough to placate the raven's territorial fury.

“Oh, hush,” is Cedric's only comment, as he unceremoniously throws the coins out the window for the post-bird to catch. “Shoo, skedaddle, you stupid bird.”

The seagull, half his tail lost to Wormwood's bill and talons, flies off yelling the kind of epithets one ever only hears around harbours of a certain fame.

“Hah! Victory is ours,” Wormwood caws triumphantly, fluttering in tight circles around Cedric. “I can still hold my ground in a fight, see!”

But the sorcerer just swats at him, covering his eyes and grimacing. “You too, Wormy, settle down... you're giving me motion sickness.”

Wormwood, enthusiasm curbed, lands on the footboard and looks up at him critically. Cedric isn't feeling well, and it shows: he looks like he hasn't slept a wink. Cedric was never one to need many hours of sleep to spring up awake and refreshed, and now, as he dresses for the day and climbs the stairs to the workshop, his movements are slow, and he's shivering at every draught in the cold air of the tower. He laments his head is spinning, and a tingle in all his nerves.

“ _Merlin's Mushrooms_ , I must be incubating a cold,” Cedric whines, hunched over the escritoire, rubbing his temples. Face scrunched up in discomfort, he cranes his neck back to cast a look of longing upon the Family Wand, poised in the centre of his workstation. He pulls the stretchy skin of his face down, until he resembles a ghostly, grotesque mask, moaning wistfully. “Now I can't even try it out, not until I shake this cold off! How _bothersome_.”

“Huh?” Wormwood caws, in a tone interrogative enough to be understood.

“Well, for starters, it would mess up the _calibration_ ,” Cedric explains, sighing and letting go of his face.

Even if the raven hadn't asked, he would have probably explained anyway. But Wormwood doesn't dislike the thought of the two of them _talking_... sort of. Therefore he listens, accumulating some more of the knowledge he won't ever use.

The Family Wand, Cedric says, is almost three centuries old. It has been handcrafted by the revered Solomon the Sentient, six generations ago, during the darkest time of Enchancian history.

“Father always says, it might very well be the _most_ peculiar instrument of its kind! It is no plain old wand, you see, those are carved and lacquered and polished until they can catalyse magical energy so precisely that any child can brandish it and scrap up some spell!” he says, impressively, in a single breath. “Oh no, the Family Wand is nothing but a severed branch from one of the rarest wandwood trees―the Silver Yew, nearly extinct―and it's never been primed or shaped, just left to ferment in wand-making solution for a long time, I think longer than any other! Exciting, isn't it?”

The combination of the prime matter's innate magic and an unique catalyst solution have moulded the Family Wand into an instrument of raw and unaltered power. A characteristic that, at least to Cedric's understanding of the process, by definition renders any magical artefact incredibly powerful, but also indomitable.

“Or _whimsical_ , if you will. After all, if it were so straightforward a process, anyone could make a wand like this one, right?” Cedric asks rhetorically, and Wormwood knows to give him a raspy _grok_ sound in answer. Cedric nods at him approvingly, only to wince in pain and cradle his head right after.

To distract himself from his blooming migraine, he keeps explaining: any sorcerer trying to use this Wand should always be in top shape, because its accuracy relies entirely on the user's ability and concentration. He applies the orange cube to the tip one more time, then starts to lovingly polish the glass case Goodwyn sent.

“This wand has a long long history. It has slain dragons, battled ogres, conjured entire armies, wrecked havoc through enemy ranks!” Cedric says, in that elated high voice. Then, with a light shrug of resignation, he adds, “And... the greatest of instruments does require the greatest of wielding hands, after all.”

At this, Wormwood squawks in annoyance: with that attitude, who could ever wield such a thing? He feels so easily vexed today, so much more than usual. It was the seagull, he decides. For sure. Waking up to a seagull in his turf, of all things, has to be one of his least favourite ways to start the day. Second only to meeting a rival raven, probably.

Things get better at breakfast, since Cedric barely touches his. His mother included in the case package a bag of seedy oatmeal with fruit― _raisins_ , Cedric groans, nudging them towards Wormwood―a little bag of jelly-beans―which puts a tender smile on his face for some reason―and homemade rye bread. Wormwood pecks from his plate, and the sorcerer doesn't even pretend to be annoyed. He just keeps looking at the Wand with that faraway gaze, lost in thought someplace Wormwood can't seem to reach.

“How does one actually go about conquering a kingdom?” Cedric muses, out of nowhere, absentmindedly swatting a stray seagull feather from the desk. “Even if I could wield the power...?”

“Easy. You march into the throne room, sit down on the biggest chair, and do away with anyone who wants you to get up,” Wormwood tells him through a mouthful of bread. Cedric not only ignores him, but doesn't even remind him to go easy on the bread. The raven bites off more, purely out of spite.

“I think I should wait,” he murmurs, quick, as if saying it loud and clear could bring some unknown misfortune on his head. “Right? I can't even use the Wand for now, anyway.”

“ _Excuses, excuses_ ,” Wormwood caws, imitating Goodwyn's voice. Startled, Cedric leaps in his chair and throws a look around. The rest, the raven mutters unheard, “What are you, a Royal Sorcerer or a royal scaredy-cat?”

“Oh, don't you quote my father at me now, you smarty-mouth,” Cedric huffs, hand on his chest, and it's barely the second time he acknowledges Wormwood's presence since they woke up. “If I want to take a day off, I'll take it.”

Wormwood doesn't quite know how or why, but something snaps. At full volume, releasing all of his frustration, he yells at Cedric to put his sorry self to work, that he wasted enough time already, that it's time to _get a move_ , like the darn seagull said. Cedric, of course, can't understand a single word, and resorts to yelling back. It escalates, mountain pebble to avalanche, and rolls down and down, either of them unable to stop it. By lunchtime, they are both exhausted.

“Wormwood, will you please, _please_ pipe down?” Cedric groans, exasperated. “My head's killing me―why are you so cranky this morning?”

“Because you _never_ listen to me!” Wormwood can hear the frustration in his own voice, so near despair that he's almost glad the other can only hear him squawk. “And it's taking you _ages_ to do something so simple! If you could just _hear a word I'm saying_!”

“Actually, if you must know,” Cedric starts to say, in accidental coherence, “I've been thinking of q―”

A familiar knock on the door cuts the end of his sentence off.

“Oh, what now?!” Cedric groans, voice roughed up by all the shouting, cracking into a cough.

“Cedric, you are needed up at the top floor,” says Baileywick's prim voice, straight to business. “A broken window caused a minor flood during the night, and there is no time to order a new one before it rains again. Please come quickly.”

“Can't you just board it up? I'm in the middle of something,” Cedric answers curtly, with a wide encompassing gesture. Baileywick throws an indifferent gaze around the room, taking in the unchanged mess from the day before.

“King's orders,” the Steward need only say, making Cedric twitch upright like someone zapped him with an hex.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” he mutters, getting up so forcefully the stool rolls off and crashes into the shelving. A book falls spine-down, and stays splayed on the floor. Cedric slams the door in that way that makes it bounce back open, but he doesn't even glance back.

Wormwood _fumes_. Left alone in the middle of the most frustrating, pointless, nerve-wracking discussion of his life, his eyes dart about the workshop for something to destroy before he spontaneously combusts.

In the span of a single beat, as if guided by gravity itself, his slitted eyes fall on the Wand.

Cedric went to conquer it without him, and came back with idiotic doubts and more delays. It needs to go. Wormwood flutters to the desk, landing full on his claws without even attempting to be careful, and full of righteous fury he slaps the glass case over the edge with a flap of his tail. He waits eagerly for the crash―and there is none.

The Wand and its case bounce off the floor, defying physics with a mocking magical chime. Just vaguely, through a wall of frustration, the raven notices the Wand's tip points at the window.

Next thing he knows, he's flying in circles just under the roof, debating with himself if it's high enough to get the magical glass to shatter on the floor.

“Good luck conquering the kingdom without this―!”

Only at the sound of his own voice he processes what he's doing. Glad no one has seen anything, Wormwood comes to ground level again and sets the case down, peeved to no end. Mostly at himself. He was about to actively hinder the conquest, the very same conquest that got him worked up in the first place.

“You win this time, Wand,” he says, shoving the glass case with a bit less force. It merely tips over on the desk and, to his surprise, the Family Wand rolls out, unprotected. Eyebrows raised, he touches it with the tip of his talon: nothing, no magical shield of any sorts to prevent him from grabbing it. “Hah! You got _played_ , just like that stupid old Well.”

He halts. Now, that's an interesting idea.

Nobody goes in that area, if he hides the Wand there for a while... it will be enough to teach his ungrateful sorcerer a valuable lesson.

Wormwood hops out the door Cedric left open, silver wand grabbed firmly in his talons, just like the gift he brought only the day before. With a final disdainful huff directed at the whole workshop, he leaves the foyer's stone window behind in a determined flap of wings.

He climbs higher and higher into the windy late morning, working his frustration into the strain of muscle it takes him to reach above the low layer of thick grey clouds.

There, unblocked midday sun on his back, he catches an updraught to ride and glides gratefully onto the air's support, like warm hands carrying him, taking him somewhere new, somewhere old, anywhere. A sigh disperses in the quiet ridges of wind, unheard.

When Wormwood dips lower, following the current, the entire kingdom lies in the span of his vision, the way it lies in Cedric's gloved palm in the little illusions he likes to conjure, to remind himself of the ominous schemes that seem to have grown so distant from his mind.

The raven keeps an eye on the sun, and from its slow descent westwards to the faraway green hills, he guesses no more than a couple of hours have passed. He doesn't know if it's due to the mental or physical strain, but he's already tired. There was a time, many years ago, when he could fly for days on end without needing much rest, a time when he was resilient enough to hunt if he so pleased.

Nowadays he doesn't go out as much, preferring the silence and reserve of the lair. He's almost left behind the joy of playing in the air for the sake of it, of discovering the unexplored, the entrancement of reflective surfaces. Already, he thinks as he abandons the warm updraught to make his way back, he's not as fast as he used to be.

Old age looms over him like an immense, unknowable shadow, a white fog of unknown he never wants to explore―and he knows being an ill omen incarnate won't save him from it. Magic has always taken care of his aches, his moulting feathers, the painful dampness in his hollow bones; yet, he knows for a fact that a raven's lifespan―even the companion of a sorcerer―hardly ever reaches three decades.

With the horizon of his life approaching, in a glimpse of clarity as sharp as his eyes looking in the distance, he sees that it's already too late. He'll never be Cedric's Royal Advisor. The fog seems to come out of nowhere, blotting out the horizon, like another ill omen.

He glances down at the wand in his talons, and for a moment he's tempted to drop it again. They have never even discussed how a King would go about electing a bird as his Royal Advisor, nor how he'd listen to the given advice. Cedric probably just meant that he'll decide everything on his own, it suddenly occurs to him.

“Well, good luck,” he mutters, so late on the deception it makes him cringe. “He can't even find a spell to snatch a necklace from a _child_. Even with _me_ as a Royal Advisor, the fool would still be hopeless.”

If he were a human, he wouldn't have this problem: he could talk, and all the advice he tries to give daily wouldn't go unheard.

He thinks of the time the Princess got herself changed into a cat―how helpless she was without her human voice, and how freely Cedric spoke of animal-to-human transformation, as if it were the easiest spell in the book.

“Maybe it's worth looking into,” he settles, circling the castle ground.

Out of nowhere, a pang of hunger derails his gloomy thoughts towards more earthly needs.

The Well's clearing, where he made his perennial blackberry grow, reminds him of his intention of hiding the Wand for a while. For the moment, tired of carrying it, he only sets the it on the white marble bench, and turns his attention to the food. He shall revel in eating his fill by himself, not bringing back even a single one.

At first glance, the bramble looks the same. Yet, he thinks, peering closer, something seems different.

It's a bit bigger, to begin with, but that doesn't surprise him much: after all, it's born of magic. It's still a glorious sight, smooth green leaves and tangled vines ripe with huge black fruits, as if the season were nearing Summer Solstice instead of Hallow's Eve. Rather, there is a striking change in the surrounding plants, starting from the grass at its root, dry and yellowed in a span of at least four feet. Wormwood glances up again, to the lush blackberry that sprawls and towers over the drying laurel of the hedge, and the chestnut tree precociously bare of its leaves.

“You eat a lot, don't you?” he notes, almost affectionately, though of course the plant won't answer.

He guesses it needs a lot of sunlight and minerals from the soil, and it's therefore raiding the neighbouring plants of their share and killing them. Simple survival of the fittest, the ravens say.

Wormwood eats most of the berries on the spot, so that he won't be tempted to bring any home. When he glances over at the Well, an image comes to him unasked, of human hands carrying a heap of fruit in their palms. If he were human, he could bring them back... just to eat them right in front of Cedric, if anything. He flutters back to the bench, closing his prehensile foot around the Wand again. If he were human―

“I have more wishes to grant, Royal Advisor,” the Well murmurs sweetly, and its call came almost expected, in a way.

It's still there, golden and overly polite in the overcast light of mid afternoon. As he was flying overhead earlier, Wormwood noticed a dense white fog in the distance, and now he can smell it coming closer. There is rarely fog over Enchancia.

He wonders if the Well can predict the future. He wonders if he can use one of his remaining wishes to get a glimpse of the future. He grips the Wand tighter. He wonders if―

“Or should I say, perhaps, _Your Majesty_?”

Wormwood flies to the stone edge, to look into the inexpressive golden eyes.

“I am but a poor old crow,” he says again, threading lightly, opening his wings once more. “What do I have to wish for, beside my bare necessities?”

“All the uses of a great hand,” the Well suggests readily. Wormwood flexes his black wing, long remiges preened to impeccable order. “To wield the greatest of instruments.”

“Hands would be of no use to me,” Wormwood retorts. He glances down at the Wand, still trapped under his clawed foot, and no amount of haughtiness can cover the hesitation in his voice as he speaks, “Human life is nothing to me.”

“But human lives are longer,” the Well spells out for him, with a slight edge of salesman's pitch. “All the uses of more time would be at your disposal, to use as others waste theirs.”

For a moment, the raven falls silent. Somewhere deep in himself, he always knew: Cedric will never make it in time, will never keep his promises. _He doesn't even―care,_ he thinks bitterly, _if I roll over and die without having taken my rightful place on―by the throne_.

And Wormwood can't even _tell_ him.

Before he knows it, he's given in. He hops back to the glorious bramble, and with his sharp bill he plucks the last vine, heavy with seven dark berries as big as an eyeball. Upon throwing them into the uncanny golden mouth and hearing the faint splash several feet down, his stomach tightens greedily at the waste. Maybe it isn't such a good idea, after all―but his voice is already making the wish.

“I wish I were a human sorcerer of great power,” he declares. “A man that this kingdom would _fear_.”

The Well tells him that his wish is granted, and its magic starts working without a moment's notice.

As the golden glow irradiates his feathered body, Wormwood has no time to think or rethink any of his actions, or imagine any of the consequences. All is blinding light that filters through his tense eyelids, through the whole of him, and all is compressed into the painful stretch of magic changing him to his very essence.

When he opens his eyes, all is over, and he's still gasping for breath. He is high up, as if he were flying, but he can feel the ground under his feet. All of him feels different, changed, _other_.

Disoriented, he cannot keep his balance; falling over is a lot more painful than expected. Breathing hard into the yellowing grass, he brings his new human hands in front of his face. They are nothing like he imagined: they are gangly, wrinkled things―with the skin as black and thin as the leather-bound covers of Goodwyn's three generations hand-me-down books, the kind that tears around the corners when Cedric dog-ears them. At the end of his spindly fingers, where Cedric's hands have blunt transparent nails, he has long and grainy arched claws.

All his limbs feel numb and unsteady, and he has to fight with all of them to climb to his feet. He gets impatient at this body's lack of coordination, groaning through alien, dry vocal cords. He refuses to give up, and in the end he manages to stand, undignified on his trembling human legs, like a newborn foal moving his first step. Kings stand and walk, he shouts at himself, so he needs to stand and walk. Breathing in with those huge, brittle lungs, he leans over the Well to see his reflection in the golden slab.

“Wishing Well,” the raven asks, in a croaky lisped voice that sends an awful chill down his back, “why do I look like a dragon's grandfather?”

His tongue is big and heavy to move, but he pushes it to the front of his mouth, where he knows humans have two rows of teeth; he finds only battered gum that tastes of raw flesh. He shudders. His aching back, impossible to pull straight no matter how he tries, starts to bead in cold sweat.

“What you see is merely the human equivalent of your age.” The Well's sweet voice couldn't sound more hateful to his hard ears. “The age you would be, without all the magical aid you have received. Unfortunately, your wager could cover nothing more.”

The leathery face in the reflection twists in a paroxysm of terror. The fruits came from the Well's magic, and he used them to pay for a wish. _Loops are always unpredictable_ , Cedric's voice says in his head, reading to him an interesting passage from some old book he found, _you never know what they'll spit out when you create one._

 _What have I done,_ he thinks in dismay, barely able to take in his appearance, the sheer pain of existing in this body. If he were a human, he'd have tufts of white hair and no teeth, and these grey wires sprouting from his chin down to the ground―he runs an unsteady hand over the grey hair and battered face of this... this― _codger_ his human equivalent is. He looks older than Cedric's father― _this is horrible, it can't do_.

“You have _one_ wish remaining,” the Well says, offering the solution like a forbidden fruit. The monotone voice takes a thinly veiled edge of greed. “The perfect wager lays at your feet, _Your Majesty_.”

His old withered claws scratching the Well's stone for support as he bends on creaky legs, Wormwood picks up the Family Wand. He must have knocked it down when he grabbed the edge.

 _This_ , he thinks in an instant of perfect clarity, staring down at the silver branch in his hand, _won't be forgiven_. But his hand trembles, and his knees ache, he can barely see and barely breathe. Who could live like this, with the white fog of death looming so close, like a suspended sword over his head? This can't be, it can't be his future.

“My years of raven,” he wheezes, his voice shaking with strain and fear as he throws Cedric's wand into the Well's eager mouth, “I wish changed to years of man.”

“Your last wish,” the Well says, its velvety voice echoing through the empty Queensgrave and somehow as booming as thunder, “has been granted.”

A tenfold brighter than the previous one, the golden glow of Wormwood's third wish irradiates him and the whole clearing, shooting skywards like a beam from the depths of the earth. He keeps his eyes open as much as he can, espying with fascination the new, tough flesh filling in his empty skin, galvanized in the returning strength in his limbs.

This new change comes without a single lick of pain, yet his breathing still comes short and quick, through lungs that still feel huge, as strong as a blacksmith's bellows. The Well's light tingles on the swarthy skin of his new human form, the velvety colour of loquat seeds bathed in a golden flame, the same everywhere but his hands and feet, which are pure, charcoal-black.

The face reflected in the mirror-like slab―way too clear and crisp to be a mere reflection―is now smooth and chiseled, with a high aquiline nose reminiscent of his bill, and the bright green eyes he always liked in himself, the mark of his botanical namesake. He looks down, flexing his hands experimentally, inspecting his bare physiognomy down to the onyx-black feet firmly planted in the brittle, yellowed grass. _Now, this is more like it_ , he thinks, between relief and awe.

“Humans usually cover their skin,” he tells the Well, schooling his new facial muscles into a dismissive sneer.

“Test your abilities, if you care for such sensibilities,” the Well croons in its sing-song voice, spitting out something in a second, brief flash of light. A wand, as black as a moonless night and in the shape of a familiar rough branch, floats into his open hands.

Wormwood, the air starting to bite at his featherless form, tests the grip of his clawed, flexible fingers. The hands are complex to control, and incredibly strong; the Wand, a considerable weight to carry for his raven form, now looks like a small twig ready to snap in his grasp. A few moments pass, and the cold makes itself noticeable in small raised bumps all over him.

“Humans do have terrible insulation,” he considers out loud, running the claw-tips of his free hand through the only protection on his skin―the dense black hair on his head, that feel just the same as his raven's feathers.

“Hence, the need for clothes,” the Well points out, somewhat surprisingly. Wormwood glances back at it.

“What do _you_ know? You are a Well,” he rebuts with unrestrained mocking. Although, it does make sense: out in the cold in his new bare skin, now he understands the need to drape oneself from head to toe in woven thread and animal hide.

“I've been here for a long, long time,” the Well says, with the slightest inflection of tone, as if recollecting a past long gone. “I know humans better than most. Their fears, their desires, and the paths they are lead on.”

Wormwood elects to ignore the Well and its sudden loquacity, otherwise concerned. For his first magic trick, it doesn't seem such a terrible idea to provide himself with coverage.

He's seen humans wear clothes all his life. Every morning, Cedric's routine is the same, nightgown pulled over his head―seeing how often he gets stuck, there has to be a better way to do it... not that Wormwood was ever able to ask―then from the bottom up, socks, undershirt, breeches, shirt, suspenders, vest, ribbon, robe. He knows the name of each and every garment, and knows the exact shape and function of none.

He needs something simpler. Instinctively, as he dwells on the matter he starts pacing to warm himself up, like Cedric starts doing on the first chilly days of the year. Sometimes, when the winter that follows is so harsh the windows fern over in frost and the old heater gives up on them, he wears an old blue blanket on his shoulders, like a cloak.

“Got it!” He waves the wand, in a movement he knows the shape of but never practiced, swinging it around himself. The gesture is direct, uncoordinated in the way small human children move; all the same, cloth bursts from the tip of his wand like a black waterfall, falling over him.

Ecstatic, he spreads the black fabric wide: he managed to conjure a big, slightly irregular rectangle; he was going for a cape, but this could work as a sheet at best.

With a slightly disappointed sigh, he fashions it around his body the way that covers him the most, until it resembles the cloak he meant it to be. The cloth drapes over his body, covering his feet and the grass around them, hemmed in long jagged fringes that speak to him of his lost plumage. To keep it closed in the front, he marches to the tree and snaps a twig from it, then forcefully threads it through the fabric, as a very crude sewing pin. Wormwood lifts his hands to admire his work, turning slowly on his heels.

He can do magic. He managed to dress himself, on his first try.

“Seems like this wand was in need of a new master, after all,” he says out loud, pleased. This time, the Well stays silent.

His theft is the last thing on Wormwood's mind as he relishes in victory, nearly euphoric as he gazes down at the Wand in his hands. Maybe it was _meant to be_ , like Cedric always says. Impatient to use it again, he starts to call to his memory all the spells he can remember.

As his second trick, he sets to conjure a rush of air, like the stroke of huge wings. It takes him only three attempts to create one strong enough to uproot part of the hedge.

“Hah!” he shouts, closing his hand into a fist. “Now, what else have we got...?”

Training himself in wand-wielding is not easy, but he has thirty years of observer's experience to aid him. He remembers every advice Goodwyn has given Cedric, and every theory book he's read.

It occupies most of the afternoon, and by dinnertime Wormwood feels confident he could hold his ground in a fight. If he wishes to study more, though, he needs the books he hasn't yet read.

He glances at castle, stark against the reddening sun, and watches the clouds around it fracture into a scattering of uncharted islands lined in bright pink. The sun melts into bluish fog behind them, sinking behind the castle's towers. It starts to drizzle, and he lowers his eyes before seeing the three black shapes flying in unison above the towers.

Wormwood cleans his feet on the grass, puts the Wand in the folds of his cloak, and assumes he looks presentable. Without a glance behind, he's out of the Well's clearing―which, also unseen, completely dried to a dull yellow―and marching towards the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wormwood calls himself an old crow ironically.


	3. Bloodline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cedric can't catch a break, and Sofia isn't as easily impressed as her dad.

“Oh, it's no use,” Cedric mutters under his breath, for the umpteenth time. “Why am I here, again?”

In the life of every sorcerer there are good magic days, and bad magic days. He has had a lot of bad days. But today, oh, today is a _disaster_.

“If you could perhaps finish within this lifetime, we would be _so_ very grateful,” Baileywick pipes up unhelpfully, from what sounds like a mile below him. Good thing Cedric was never scared of heights. “The Royal Weatherman informed me that we won't be spared these end-of-summer showers for at least another three weeks. If those cracks aren't fixed by tonight, we could be dealing with a much heavier flood―”

“Will you _please_ be quiet, then?” Cedric yells down, already frayed. His head hasn't stopped pounding since he woke up, and his whole body is ajitter, as if hundreds of tremulous wings were trapped under his skin. “I'm already up here doing _plumber's_ work, I don't need the added commentary, thank you.”

The Steward rolls his eyes at him, right there, without even bothering to dissimulate it. “Carpenter's work, technically.”

Cedric has never seen him being openly impolite to anyone else but him. Earlier, as he walked him to the storage room, Baileywick had informed him in the most casual tone that all his wands―that he lent to Sofia's sorcery class after they decimated the school's wand supply attempting to learn some tricky spark-conjuring spell―have unfortunately also suffered minor fissures, and have been sent in for repairs; free of charge, many apologies.

 _Thanks for not bothering to ask me_ , Cedric had said when he regained the use of his voice, evidently with not enough sarcasm. _You are welcome,_ the Steward had, indeed, graciously replied. Definitely a bad day for magic.

Jaw clenched, he palms the cracked frame in search of an easier way to repair it. Positioned in a corner of the castle that seems to trap a tenfold the humidity of the rest, the thing is completely busted, the wood dry and brittle on the outside and rotten in the middle. It has let in water from at least five different cracks, and from the look of it, the only way to save it would be a complete do-over. But alas, they want him to fix it, so he has to try. He has already failed a couple of Repair spells, and he can't think of any pure Construction spells off the top of his head... maybe a Paint-over spell, so at least he'll get out of doing this awful job.

The water accumulated from the previous days' rain, even as the servants mop it up by the bucketful, is still ankle-deep. It's the only thing that made the leak noticeable, the water flooding the semi-unused room dripping into another through the ceiling. The hem of Cedric's robe is heavy with the brownish rainwater that washed over everyone's shoes once they cracked open the attic's door. Except Baileywick's, who had rain-boots on. Of course.

The wooden feet of a few old cupboards and tables are already ruined, bent out of shape and swollen with humidity; they creaked and groaned menacingly under Cedric's slight weight, as he piled them and climbed up to reach the incriminated window. It sits, put there in an unknown architectural whim, in a sloping niche near the ceiling, much lower than his height. This way he has to fold up awkwardly and look up to inspect the leaks, stuffed into the window with his backside on the wet windowsill and his knees in his mouth; a homing pigeon in his cubby hole.

Cold, achey, and ready to throw in the towel, Cedric taps his purple wand―that he fortunately refrained from lending―against his knee, and attempts the spell to cover up the cracks. Unexpectedly, the pesky things glow and disappear from the wood, in a crinkle of magic static. He stares at it in amazement.

“It's... it's done,” he says, with a bit more surprise than intended.

“ _Finally_ ,” Baileywick sighs, motioning for him to climb down, as though he were a child that took too long to finish playing, so that the servants can clean around and get rid of the ruined furniture. He checks his pocket-watch once again. “Now I can see to the _other_ situation. We sure have got a lot of visitors this year, haven't we?”

“You are welcome, huh,” Cedric retorts, stretching a leg out of the niche to step on the table below, the first in the tall pile he has to descend. “If you want a job well do―”

That instant, his wand gives a twitch―like an intense shudder through its body of lacquered wood. The fissures reappear all at once, splintering the wood up to the glass and ferning out in a lightning of cracks. He has only a split second to thrust his other leg out and scramble down on the table, before the window explodes with a punishing slam, and a strong wind blasts inside, raining twigs, leaves and pebbles on everyone below. Cedric holds on to the edge of the table, scampering up on it in fright, and the hasty movement is too much for the blasted legs.

“ _Oh no_ ―” he whimpers, watching the wet wood bend inwards and throw the whole pile off balance. “Move out of the way―!”

The stone floor rushes up to meet him at alarming speed, as the tower of furniture he built comes crashing down under him. He rides the table like a sled all the way down and he can only brace for impact, landing on his left shoulder in a rain of splinters.

In a blurry haze of pain, he can barely see Baileywick's rain-boots unmoved on the floor, as if he grew roots there. The Steward, who stepped back with the other servants when the structure started to wobble, doesn't seem to have the guts to move a single step toward his prone form. _Is he dead?_ Violet's always somewhat loud voice asks, in her version of a discreet hush.

Cedric unsticks his face from the floor, and shakes away the water with a resigned huff. As if he could die just from falling! Preposterous. He has never injured himself in a fall in his whole life, no matter how ruinous. Well, maybe that one time―but it's so long ago, it shouldn't count.

“Cedric,” Baileywick says, somehow sounding matter-of-fact, astonished, and peeved at the same time, “just, how―what did you _do_?”

Cedric gasps, accidentally inhaling some of the water and grime, coughing it out to the side.

“ _Me_?! It wasn't _my_ fault!” he splutters, and wants to throttle the whiny note in his own voice. “The legs are all crooked and―you've seen it, it was the _wind_!”

He is no stranger to things exploding in his face, and has instinctively protected himself with his sleeves from the flying shards. He's always been able to spring up right away, but this time when he goes to put weight on his left arm, a stab of pain shoots from his elbow up though his shoulder. As he props on his other arm and climbs to his feet, the head-rush is so strong he sees black for a few seconds. There's sticky muddy water caking the left side of his fringe―red mud. _Oh, wait_.

“Oh dear, you are _bleeding_ ,” Baileywick, helpfully, points out. A hint of impatience laces his tone, along with slight mockery, loud like a scream in Cedric's burning ears. “Violet, please fetch something to bandage―but now, the window... this is even worse, we should have just boarded it up―”

“Yes, like I said _hours_ ago,” Cedric exhales, staunching the blood with his wet sleeve. He steps back from the woman approaching with a rag, turning tail to escape. “And leave me alone, I'm _fine_.”

Now they can summon the Royal Glassmaker to do his job and fix the damn thing. Not his problem anymore. Ostentatiously trailing dirt behind him, he limps back to his tower. No one attempts to stop him.

 _Good_. He wishes nothing more than to be alone for a while, free to pretend he's somewhere far away from this moment, already King and untouchable, exempt from any criticism whatsoever. Or at least, he'll have the power to throw in the dungeon anyone who attempts. _Oh yes_ , he thinks with a sneering bitter laugh, still coughing up dirty water, _when I'm King, things will be much different around here_.

He locks the door behind him, putting his visions of glory and full prisons and his shoulders against it, just for a moment. Now Wormy will fly to him, and make that gentle _grok_ noise he does when he knows something is wrong. He waits, but no flutter of wings comes to comfort him.

“Wormy?” he calls, and his voice seems to echo eerily in the silent tower.

His gaze falls to the empty perch, and their one-sided discussion from earlier comes back to him. Why was Wormwood so angry? Was it the seagull, was it the breakfast, did he also have a headache?

“He probably just went to get himself some food,” he considers. Or he's hiding and sulking somewhere. Poor Wormy, he should have brought him a snack from the kitchens, to amend all the yelling they threw at each other, and repay him of the kindness from the previous day. He sighs, “Ah well, there is always tomorrow.”

Setting to take care of his bleeding forehead, he limps to his chambers downstairs, rubbing his arm with one hand and his head with the other.

As tired eyes look back at him from the washroom mirror, he shudders a bit at his own appearance. He looks so worn-out all the time lately, paler and scragglier than ever. Sure, all the dirt isn't helping; he washes off, the wound on his head turning out to be just a tiny cut from a splinter, nothing to fuss over. Overall, he's been as lucky as usual.

Still, he thinks watching it paint the water a ferruginous orange, it's the first time in a long while that he's seen his own blood. So long he can't quite think of the last time he did, actually; he must have ended up taking his luck for granted.

Even as a lad, he never had Roland's tendency to scrape knees and break bones every other day. But it was bound to happen, sooner or later, he guesses. He makes an attempt to heal it up with magic, but the spell won't even load. He stares down at his wand, laid in his hand like a dry lifeless stick.

“Not a good day for magic, indeed,” he sighs. Is he failing his spells even when no one is watching, now? “Just _marvellous_.”

Still, it's just a scratch, he thinks while finger-combing his fringe in place; he can just hide it. For some unknown paradox, aside from the wound stinging and pulsing, his head doesn't hurt anymore. Maybe he knocked his skull so hard the pain just bled away, like the colour seems to do from his hair.

 _Merlin_ , is he ageing fast. It started as two little witch-streaks, after an incident a long, long time ago. _My little witchlet, kissed by the sea_ , Mother cooed. And now, as soon as it starts to dry, he can clearly see there's not a single black hair in his entire fringe anymore.

Will it be his whole head soon, like Father's? He wonders, while absentmindedly holding his robe under running water until all the grime is washed off, and wringing it damp. Will he finally look like a real Royal Sorcerer then, at least?

Thinking of his father brings back the thought of the Family Wand, only ray of comfort in this hopeless day. Even if it took Sofia's help to get his father to entrust the Wand to him, it's still something, isn't it? The last dregs of the warm feeling in his stomach evaporate when he remembers that, for the moment, he can't even use it.

He toes off his dirty shoes and tiptoes in his squishy wet socks to the wardrobe, digging under it with his foot for a spare pair. If only he could dig out some spare luck. _One day, I shall put the Family Wand to good use, and they'll see. They'll all see_ , he tells himself, miserable, dragging himself up the stairs to the workshop. _Let me just... hold it for a moment._

Cedric lifts his eyes to the place he left the Wand in the morning, and sees nothing.

He glances guiltily at the portrait, biting down on his bottom lip. Did the Wand fall off his desk? Has his father seen him neglect it from the portrait? He drops to his knees to look for the precious item, searching all over the floor and in every dusty corner of his lair. The place is an even worse mess than last year, it must be under some ink-stained book or barrel or dismantled shelf...

He manages to keep it together until, rolled under the desk, he finds the empty glass case. Shooting upright, he slams his head into the underside of the drawer, and sees stars under his eyelids for a whole excruciating minute―the cut pulsing horribly as if his skull split open like a ripe melon. Great, just _great_.

“Oh, but where is that Wand,” he murmurs, teary voice echoing in the empty tower, shrill with fear.

He might be a grown man now, but his mother will still put him over her knee if he has managed to lose the Family Wand after _a_ _day_ of having it. And Father... Father will _look_ at him, look at him again like he's some kind of earthworm that crawled inside the house. _Why, why, why,_ he chants in his head, drying his eyes on his sleeve and resorting to de-shelve every book on ground level to look behind.

“Wormy, stop sulking and come help me now! This is an emergency!”

In the silent chaos of the tower, his only answer is the echo of his own voice. He pauses to look around, the sheer desperation on his face replaced by a frown for a moment. Now that he notices, actually, he didn't do all this mess himself. There are ripped pillows, scratches on the desk, his beakers and ink bottles are all scattered on the floor... it almost looks like a _fight_ took place in there.

A horrible thoughts freezes him in place, picking his old copy of _Transmutation & Transfiguration_ up from the floor and clutching it open like the only thing keeping him grounded. He vaguely remembers a book falling when he went out, but surely he hasn't caused the rest of the mess by slamming the door.

Was it all already like this, and he just didn't notice, or... has the Wand been stolen, and his raven with it―? Wormwood is protective of the tower, and never had any qualms about attacking intruders... there's still seagull feathers around, for crying out loud. What if―

“But... only a _sorcerer_ would have interest in the Family Wand―” he thinks out loud, trying to contain the panic, talking to the book like it can bring him advice. It fell open on the page Sofia wanted him to look at, that time she got transformed into a cat by accident. _Animal to Human Transformation_ , he reads, just because the line is under his eyes. If Wormwood went and tried to fight a magic user...

Cedric spins around, looking for something just glaringly out of place, something that doesn't belong there, his guts twisting like wrung ropes. What if Wormwood has been _transformed_? He could be anything, a bug he accidentally squished, a jar of potion ingredients shattered on the floor, one of the books he threw behind his shoulder―and given Cedric manages to find him, would he even be able to transform him back, with his magic behaving like it's doing lately?

“Oh no, what a _disaster_ ,” he whimpers, the Wand gone from his mind.

There is only one thing that can help him find something lost: heart in his throat, he goes through his desk, his chest of drawers and cabinets, in search of the yellow crystal ball.

* * *

When her father the King introduces the tall stranger to them as a _visiting sorcerer_ , the first thing that crosses Sofia's mind is, _again?_

The man introduces himself as _Corax_.

She has been living in the castle for almost two years now, and saw a great deal of visitors—expected and unexpected—pass through. In all honesty, she wasn't expecting another _visiting sorcerer_ so soon _._ Seeing the man's smug smile, she can't help but feel a bit suspicious. Will he dazzle them with illusory gifts like Miss Nettle did? He does kind of remind her of someone, the haughty way he holds his chin up, the regal line of his brow. Is this stranger yet another face of one of their enemies? If he shows _any_ interest in the Amulet, even just a little bit, she'll tell Dad, she decides.

Built like the young men that row for a living the cargo boats, down by the river, Mr. Corax is probably the tallest person she's met, even taller than Dad and all his knights. He's corvine of hair like Snow White, and his skin is darker than Jasmine's. He's clad in a simple black cloak that covers him down to his feet, the jagged hems dragging behind his long steps.

The sorcerer opens his arms, announcing in a deep, melodious drawl that he will be performing tricks for the Royal Family, if they please to watch. Pulled out his sleeve like she's seen most sorcerers do, and held in his large, elegant hands with fingers that taper into arched claws, Mr. Corax carries a black wand in the shape of a crooked branch. With his arms extended, she notices the lower hem of his robe isn't jagged, but split in the shape of large fringes, like hanging feathers.

“Do you come bearing gifts that will disappear when our hospitality ends?” Amber asks, a bit too directly than what the rules of diplomacy would ask of her.

“Now, Amber, not all visiting sorcerers can be ill-intentioned,” Dad intervenes. He glances over at the man. “I hope?”

“Hmm, unless they come to court dressed in twigs and a ratty _sheet_ ,” Amber mutters behind her fan, making James and Sofia giggle.

“Maybe our guest has made a long journey,” Mom points out, with the evenness of opinion Sofia always admired in her. “We shouldn't judge unfairly.”

All the while, the man has been smiling affably, not at all perturbed. Or maybe he hasn't heard.

“Of course,” he says, and no one knows in answer to what. “If you please, Your Majesties, instead of unneeded riches, I can bring you a gift of wonder.”

“Fair enough,” Dad says good-naturedly. “We do love magic shows.”

“Bring it!” James claps, enthusiastic, as Amber crosses her arms, waiting to be impressed while wearing her most unimpressed scowl. Sofia, her train of thought interrupted, just turns and watches.

The stranger clears his throat into his closed fist, and as the wand emits a few black sparkles in preparation, Sofia notices his gestures have a very unnatural quality to them.

She pays closer attention, and every single move he makes, from the theatrical way he opens his arms to the blocky wand movements, gives the same impression to her. It almost looks like he's been mimicking people, without really understanding the origin and purpose of their actions. _How funny_ , she thinks.

She really feels like she has seen this man before. She tunes in on her intuition, like Snow White taught her. Differently from the other time, though, there is no unease in her gut around this mysterious stranger. Also differently, this time Mr. Cedric doesn't appear in a turquoise puff of smoke to introduce himself to the newcomer. She knows her friend is very busy―probably quite taken with learning to use his new wand at the moment―but it's still a pity that he'd miss the opportunity to meet a colleague.

Mr. Corax starts doing magic, dipping the beautiful black wand in the air like a quill in its inkwell, and purple and green glitter-like sparkles spring out of it. Sofia, life-long magic enthusiast, soon falls to the entrancement. She can't help but touch one of the sparkles that floats next to her before it dissolves into thin air; it pops, making her giggle and leaving a frizzy sting on her finger, like a little snap of static, not entirely unpleasant.

The mysterious sorcerer just mutters his spells―instead of proclaiming them as Mr. Cedric does, she notes with interest―in that deep voice that she knows from somewhere, and conjures a story in shapes of light and colour, like a picture book weaved under their rapt eyes as they gasp and stare and clasp their hands.

It's one of the fables that have always put an uneasy feeling in her chest, because there is no happy ending; she couldn't say _The Nightingale and the Rose_ is exactly her favourite, but it did keep her awake most of the night, thinking, the first time her mom agreed to read it to her until the end. Never before had she known a story where a sacrifice made out of the kindness of one's heart ended up being useless.

When it's over, the red rose that cost the little Nightingale's life thrown in the gutter, they all stand, bright-eyed, and clap for the talented conjurer. Sofia knows her mom and Amber are fond of the story, but it is Dad, she notices with surprise when she glances up at him, who is staring ahead with a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“Some gift of wonder you gave us, my friend,” he says thickly. “May I request some fireworks, to lift the mood?”

Mr. Corax grins and bows, waving his wand and sending a constellation of colourful beams up into the darkening sky. In the light of magic, his expression turns wicked for an instant, his broad smile revealing a row of slightly fangy teeth. The faces he makes keep growing more and more familiar to her, but Sofia can't place where she might have seen him. On her way to Tangu? By the sea? Has she read about him in a pirate story?

Soaking up the praise like the rose soaked up the Nightingale's heart, for the big finale the sorcerer sweeps his arm in a broad gesture, and the lights take the shape of a great red bird, a shrieking phoenix that vanishes from the sky in a glorious lick of flame.

Everyone claps, even the servants who have halted their coming and going for a moment to marvel at the display. Sofia, the bird theme finally jumping out at her, sees her budding suspicion sharpen like a magnifying glass held over a map.

Dad, overcome with enthusiasm, thanks the sorcerer for the beautiful performance. As further gratitude he offers, as it's customary, to host the stranger for the night. The black-clad man, as it's customary, humbly accepts.

Sofia keeps an eye on the man as they all walk through the castle, noticing how he almost seems to know his way to the dining room. By the time they sit down at dinner, as she climbs into the chair next to the guest as it is customary, her suspicions are pretty much confirmed.

Those claws must be so very uncomfortable for eating, she guesses from the way he brandishes cutlery. No one else notices, engrossed in listening to Dad explaining how a dam works and why the village can wait no longer to build one. And then listening to Baileywick as he mentions some issue with a window in one of the upper floors. The _stranger_ too listens closely, but he also struggles unnoticed with his food until Sofia starts to really pity him. She sees him look longingly at the uncut meat on his plate, and his unsteady grip on knife and fork that is one slip away from social disaster. She sympathises.

He finally attacks the thick bread slice, methodically ripping it apart and dipping the pieces in the sauce at least, all along looking quite sullen. Sofia, unable to watch a guest go hungry right next to her at the royal table, stretches to the bowl of Chef André's best mashed potatoes, and serves a dollop for herself. It has tender, juicy dices of ham in it, and a spoon is easier to use than fork and knife.

“Potatoes, Mr. Corax?” she offers, holding the spoon in her other hand so that he may get the hint. The stranger narrows his eyes at her; if out of gratitude of suspicion, she can't tell.

“Why, thank you, Princess,” he says, a bit dryly.

As the man can finally eat, Sofia digs happily into her own potatoes.

“Seems like you came to us in a time of great need, Corax,” Dad says, using the stranger's name with kingly familiarity. Sofia likes that very much about her stepfather, his easy-going way of treating people. “Would you lend us a hand, and accept in exchange our gratitude and hospitality?”

“Can't see why not,” Mr. Corax says, in a very regal and gracious manner despite the bits of mashed potato on his face. Sofia nudges his leg and dabs her mouth with the silk napkin on her lap; the man, to his credit, doesn't lose a beat in mimicking her. “It happens often that my travels bring me where I am most needed. I'll be glad to help.”

“Alright!” the King smiles, in that distinctively _James_ way. After just a moment, though, his brows furrow again. “You see, we are having exceptionally bad weather this year and, as I was saying, our nearest village urgently needs a dam, to prevent the Old King from flooding, both now and this coming winter.”

Sofia's thoughts immediately go to Ruby and Jade, and the rest of her friends from the village. Dad didn't call the river _Royal River_ like they usually do in the castle, but instead he absentmindedly called it the _Old King,_ like they do in the village: she guesses the news must be very recent. She wants to ask why can't Mr. Cedric help build the dam faster, but her father speaks again.

“Now the works are way behind, and since our Sorcerer seems to be unwell,” and he exchanges a glance with Baileywick, “we do need all the magical help we can get.”

“Heavens know we do,” Baileywick sort of mutters out the corner of his mouth, looking skywards. He looks like he's recalling something that pains him greatly.

To her worries about the village, Sofia can now add a few ones for Mr. Cedric. For some reason, Baileywick's quip makes the stranger laugh instead. It's a peculiar laugh, a series of guffawing _haw-haw-haw_ sounds with a small rattle in the end. Sofia whips her head around so fast she almost knocks her glass over. Once again, she _knows that laugh_.

“Apologies,” Mr. Corax says, clearing his throat as if he had water down the wrong pipe, just as unnaturally as his other gestures. “It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty.”

Sofia spends the rest of the dinner squinting at him, so focused she barely picks at her dessert. And yet, for all she racks her brain, she can't guess why Mr. Cedric's raven would try to pass himself for a visiting sorcerer.

When everyone is sated, they all rise to their feet. Baileywick approaches the man to give him directions to his assigned room. Sofia looks at him, tall and straight-backed, against the big window of the dining room. She can still see Mr. Cedric's tower from there, even though a thin white fog is slowly thickening, greying out the view, and the drizzle turned into the expected full-blown cloudburst. In the wind that flurries the fallen leaves off the ground and bends the barely visible trees down in the gardens, even the stout lone tower seems to shake a bit.

“Right on cue, this is the kind of weather we are talking about,” Baileywick says, gesturing to the storm outside. “Apparently, the wind gusts are so strong a windowpane was bashed in today.”

“Was anyone hurt?” Sofia asks anxiously, coming up to him.

“Everyone was fine, Princess,” Baileywick reassures her. After a moment, he adds, “Well, Cedric did fall down, but he said he was fine.”

There's another, distinct huff of amusement, that Mr. Corax is quick to dissimulate.

That's it, it's confirmed, Sofia decides. She must go to Mr. Cedric immediately. With a mind to also bring him some dinner, and see for herself if he's alright, she bids her goodnights and sets to the kitchens.

On her way there, she stops in her tracks and lets out a gasp of surprise upon spotting Mr. Cedric himself, just turning the corner.

“Mr. Cedric!” she calls, running after him. “I must tell you something!”

The sorcerer, startled, almost drops the yellow globe he's holding. He looks down at her, and his eyes have dark shadows all around, and look really red. He must really be unwell, she thinks, her hands clasping in apprehension.

“Do I look like I have the time for chit-chat right now, Princess?” he asks, a bit through his teeth. He looks like he can't quite keep still. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

“Busy with what?” she asks quickly. Mr. Cedric hesitates, ticking on the sphere with his fingernails.

“Looking for Wormwood,” he admits in the end. He inhales to say something else, but he thinks better of it, swallowing the words.

“Is Wormwood missing?” Sofia gasps, now _certain_. “Since when?”

“This morning, I think,” he says, hunching defensively. She waits for him to continue, and under her eyes his demeanour changes. A flinch of anxiety makes him avert his eyes, and pulls his face into a grimace. “We... we had an argument, and then I had to leave―and now my workshop is in chaos and I cannot find him... Princess,” he lowers his voice, speaking in a fevered, stuttering whisper, “Princess, I fear he's been _stolen._ ”

“Mr. Cedric, calm down,” she says gently, going a bit closer to touch his arm reassuringly. He twitches under her fingers, so nervous it makes her want to cry. “I know where Wormwood is.”

“You do?” he gasps, his eyes going wide. As Sofia takes him by the sleeve and starts to pull him in the intended direction, he frowns again. “The dining hall? But he never goes there. Is he―is he alright?”

Right in that moment, _Mr. Corax_ is letting himself out of the hall, and when they turn the corner they run straight into him.

The man lets out a dissonant squawk of alarm, and spreads his arms for balance. Mr. Cedric is shoved back, sleeve ripping away from Sofia's grip, and falls over. The crystal ball slips from his arms, and rolls away down the corridor.

“Out of my _way_ ―!”

“Watch wherever you're going, _you_ ―!”

Sofia fights the urge to slap her palm on her face. The same _exact_ disdainful tone. How could she be so late in putting the pieces together?

Mr. Cedric, still on the floor fighting the robe that flopped back over his head and rubbing his nose that slammed hard into the man's shoulder, spends a few moments muttering about people that don't look where they're going, in quite unkind terms.

Mr. Corax doesn't seem bothered by his harshness, looking much like he's used to it, not even the littlest bit taken aback. He blinks a couple of times, then a strange expression softens his handsome face, one Sofia cannot quite place. It's kind of the same face Amber makes at James' antics sometimes.

“My apologies,” he says, in a completely different tone.

Sofia already noticed his voice, very deep and with a slow, relaxing cadence. She heard him speak quite a lot now, and to think it took her so long to recognise it as Wormwood's―but, she suddenly thinks, Mr. Cedric has never heard Wormwood speak! She sets to find a way to pull out that weird, unmistakeable laugh.

“Uhm, why don't we grab a bite, Mr. Cedric? I didn't have dessert and you look half-starved,” she blurts out, gesturing to the table.

She spies the expression on Wormwood's face, but he merely cracks a mocking smile. It's not enough for Mr. Cedric to recognise him for sure, but along with his eyes―bright green on the iris, and bright yellow where there should be only white, and blinking white and reflective when he angles his head, just like Robin and Mia's eyes do―it should never have fooled her.

“I don't have time for _supper_!” Mr. Cedric yells, kicking his feet like a frustrated child. With an edge of teariness, he queries, “Princess, _please_ , do you know where my raven is, or were you just tricking me?”

In that moment, while her mind blanks at the mere thought of ever being that cruel, the crystal ball bounces off the wall and comes rolling back towards them. Mr. Cedric sidesteps it the wrong way, and gets tripped like a pin in a bowling lane. This time, Wormwood doesn't even try to hold back, he bursts into a sonorous laugh at his tumble.

Wincing a bit, Sofia steps forward to help Mr. Cedric up. She knows the man to be very sturdy―she has seen him fall down more times that she can count―but still, this wasn't exactly what she had in mind.

Wormwood, quicker, just bends fluidly at the waist and grabs Mr. Cedric's elbow. He pulls him up all at once, as if he weighted less than a fallen leaf. He's still laughing, and she can see Mr. Cedric's furious scowl as he's about to speak―but only a high strangled squeak makes it out of his throat.

Finally, he's looking the _stranger_ in the eyes, and hopefully fitting together the pieces just like she did. Wormwood still has his hand on Mr. Cedric's elbow, as if he forgot it there.

A very strange sequence of expressions pass over Mr. Cedric's face, changing like clouds in a windy sky. He looks like he completely forgot to get angry at the _stranger_ for laughing, and he doesn't even snatch his arm away. He opens his mouth to say something, index finger raised―but then halts and rethinks, words caught in throat. He repeats this a couple of times, going from looking like he just swallowed a whole lemon to that face Amber makes in P.E. class. Lastly, he glances left and right, up at the man, and finally down at her.

“If... if you'll excuse _us_ , Princess Sofia,” he almost gasps, grabbing the man by the edge of his cloak and dragging him off.

“Goodnight!” Sofia waves at the duo, more questions than answers floating in her head.

Evidently, Mr. Cedric doesn't want people to know this _visiting sorcerer_ is actually Wormwood. Is it possible they had some accident with magic? But Mr. Cedric said he hadn't seen Wormwood all day...

Musing, she walks down the corridor, picking up the heavy crystal ball. _I'd better take this with me,_ she thinks, _for safekeeping._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sofia Holmes, private detective.


	4. Pebble to Avalanche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cedric isn't as enthusiastic as Wormwood hoped, and they try their hand at two-sided arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus trigger warnings just for this chapter:  
> Emotional/Psychological Abuse; Minor Violence; Threats of Violence; Physical Abuse (NON sexual!)  
> (tbh they just argue and it escalates)

The silence hangs between them, as tense as storm air, as they walk side by side through the corridors.

They don't meet anyone on their way from the dining hall to the tower, and the only sound that accompanies them is the hurried clacking of Cedric's heels, and the fleshy cadence of Wormwood's own bare steps. Cedric hasn't let go of his cape.

“Wormwood?” Cedric whispers to him after a while, quick and unsteady, the way he does when he can't keep something bottled up anymore, “Is it really you?”

Wormwood hesitates, walking with his eyes trained to the creases of cloak pressed in Cedric's grasp. He's at a loss for words: if he answers, this time Cedric will hear him. _Hear him_. Disoriented by his silence, though, Cedric stops and releases him, imperceptibly stepping away.

“It is me,” Wormwood finally manages, the sound of his voice almost too loud and sudden.

Cedric heaves a huge sigh of relief, hands crossed over his chest, and the silence seems to breathe open with him.

“Don't you scare me like that!” he snaps a second after, turning around with one foot on the first step of the staircase. “I was sick with worry! The lair is a _disaster_ , I thought you were... taken or lost or―I thought you were _gone_!”

Wormwood gives a scoff, not at all intentioned to take any of that scolding tone right now. Has Cedric nothing better to say to him? Anything at all? His new legs are already aching from all the walking―he never noticed the castle had _so many stairs―_ and his clawed toes won't stop catching on the hem of his cape. He is heaving after Cedric, who just quickly skips up the stairs with the force of habit, holding his robe up and going on a brief rant about his sudden disappearance. Wormwood makes to move forward, and perch on the sorcerer's shoulder to be carried―before he remembers the logistical impossibility of it.

They walk up the countless stairs in, again, silence. Wormwood tries to think of all the things he always wanted to talk about with Cedric. They are all gone, lost somewhere, like the end of the staircase that seems impossible to reach. Frustration is quick to run an itch up his neck.

Once they are almost at the top, it is Cedric that breaks the silence again. “Are you going to tell me how did you get yourself into this anytime soon, or should I take a guess?” he mutters, with an edge of hostility.

“Why, are we in a hurry?” the raven retorts, trying not to sound too wheezed.

They've finally made it to the landing and Cedric is letting them into the lair. Wormwood gives a glance to the gargoyle he used to perch on while Cedric went through the small ritual of retrieving the key and opening the lock. Didn't the gargoyle use to be much bigger? Its long stone fangs are level with Wormwood's eyes now. He steps forward after Cedric, still eyeing the statue.

“Of course! The less people see you, the less― _careful_!” Cedric lifts a hand to stop him, but it's too late: Wormwood's head smacks straight into the hardwood doorframe. Clicking his tongue, the sorcerer check for damage, craning his neck up as he did when he looked him straight in the eye, and Wormwood saw recognition hit him as the light of day. Like he just noticed, he says, “You are so... _tall_ now.”

“Everyone saw me, I had dinner at the royal table,” Wormwood groans, rubbing the bump on his forehead and proceeding to scratch himself with his nails. He lets out a garbled exhale: what was the damn Well thinking, equipping him with claws on all his limbs?

Cedric, who had been staring up at him without moving, blinks out of his little entrancement. “Well, then, nevermind. Just sit down somewhere without hurting yourself, while I find a way to fix this,” he says, as soon as the lair's door is safely locked behind them.

Wormwood half-expects Cedric to conjure him some ice, but instead he sees him climb, quick as a squirrel, up the ladder to the lofted library. Wormwood throws a look around the room, sizing up the spaces in relation to his human body. It feels so small now, almost cramped. There are more scattered books than usual, as if they were pulled out of the shelves in haste. Was Cedric looking for something? _Oh, drat_ , he thinks, free hand grabbing the Wand in his cloak. _He already noticed it's missing._

The raven refuses to sit down as instructed, a hand to his throbbing head; for some reason, words just won't come to him. Talking to the others hadn't been so difficult: seeing how easily that Miss Nettle was able to get in, he knew exactly how to get himself favour and hospitality for the time being. But Cedric, instead... how is he supposed to phrase questions, now that their established communication routes all went off the charts?

“Fix... what?” he just asks in the end, a lot late for the normal rhythm of a conversation.

“ _This_ , obviously.” Barely visible up on the lofted level as he crouches between the dusty books, Cedric's hand lifts and gestures to the whole of Wormwood. He isn't really paying attention anyway, Wormwood can tell from his tone. “I don't know what happened, but fear not, Wormy! We'll have you back to your normal self in _no_ time!”

Wormwood's heart _sinks_.

His small heart of raven was never stranger to that feeling; every time a plan went wrong, he would feel his ribcage press down, his insides turn to lead. But now that this slow human heart does it, for a moment, he feels the floor itself crumble under him.

Cedric... isn't at all keen to talk with him, even if it's the first and only opportunity they ever had to do so, he realizes, falling seated on the stool. As he watches the sorcerer climb back down, he knows the disappointment shows bare on this alien face he's wearing, entirely too yielding to keep things hidden.

Cedric comes towards him, until he's standing right in front of him, book under one arm and an undecipherable scowl on his face. The same face Wormwood has been reading for thirty years is now as new and alien as his own, and he can't gauge his intentions at all.

 _He said he's been worried_ , Wormwood recalls, grasping at straws. But Cedric doesn't look _worried_ as he lifts a hand to Wormwood's face and presses it with the pads of his fingers, tilting the raven's head one way and the other; rather, he seems tired, annoyed, dejected.

“This form _is_ quite well done, actually,” Cedric notes clinically. The raven snatches his head back, stung by the twinge in his slow heart. Even with a touch so cold and impersonal, it still beat harder, like a sparrow sated on breadcrumbs. “It's almost a shame to undo it. But of course, we can't have you stay like this.”

“And why would that be?” Wormwood rebuts, covering in challenge the sting of rejection that hit him all over again. Cedric raises his eyebrows at him, the small crease of true incredulity appearing between them.

“Well, how would I explain it, for starters? Don't you hate it? And, pray tell, _where_ would I put you?” he lists, gesturing again at the whole of him, like he were some daily nuisance to get over with as soon as possible. “Not to mention you know _all_ of my plans, like some sort of overgrown _secrecy hazard_.”

Caught off-guard, the raven bristles. “Those are _our_ plans!” he snaps, outraged. “And _I_ am not the one with no brain filter who is always plotting out loud!”

“I-I have a _busy mind_ ,” Cedric retorts, taking a step back from him as Wormwood rises to his feet. He clears his throat. “Anyway, how did _this_ happen? Have you got yourself cursed? Did you mess with the Amulet?”

Now that he's standing, the top of Cedric's head is level with his collarbone, and Wormwood is the one to look down at him.

He did give the Amulet brief consideration when he saw the Princess. Now he wonders if he should have snatched it from her when he had the chance, during the silly magic theatre he put on for them―so now he wouldn't have to stand there and be analysed and interrogated, and suffer the gaping void of Cedric's disinterest.

“No, I haven't!” he says vehemently, with a broad gesture of both his arms. Cedric's brow knits in incomprehension. Oddly, Wormwood feels a draught up his bare legs, like a sudden gust of wind. "Only an idiot would just... go near the damn thing without some Power-Plucking potion ready―why are you staring at me?”

The raven glances down at himself, following the line of Cedric's still gaze. The twig in his cloak, after hours of his moving and gesturing, ended up snapping. With nothing to hold it together, on his next inhale, the shapeless fabric slips from his shoulders and flops to the ground. Distinctly, he hears the Wand roll on the floor behind him, hidden from sight; the nape of his neck, where his hackles used to be, beads in cold sweat.

“Dear, Wormwood, have you had _nothing_ under that _the whole time_?” Cedric asks, stepping back in haste, like a grasshopper scampering away from water. His hands come together at his middle, fingers struggling to undo the knot that keeps his own robe closed, and Wormwood feels the strange impulse to avert his eyes too. Cedric waves the purple cloth in front of him, in a frantic attempt to shield his eyes from the raven's form.

“I'm not wearing _that_ ,” Wormwood scoffs, crossing his arms. Cedric manages to raise eyebrows at him while looking anywhere but him.

“Oh, suit yourself,” he snaps, throwing the robe astride Wormwood's crossed arms, too impatient to keep his hands full. The raven gives an indignant caw, just the same as his old ones. “Just _cover up_ , until I find you something―hm, _decent_.”

Disgruntled, the raven studies the cloth thrown on him: he's seen Cedric put it on so many times, one arm and then the other, but he cannot be bothered. He just holds it in front of him; it's very warm, heavy with keys and trinkets tucked away in its countless hidden pockets. Cedric is left blinking down at Wormwood's bare, black-clawed feet. Something moves in the corner of Wormwood's eye, and he glances up in time to see Cedric look away. _Can the Wand be seen somehow?_ he asks himself, trying to glance back at his shed cape on the floor, spine tensing. _H_ _as he understood everything?_

He doesn't quite know why the matter causes him such unease: taking hold of the Wand was unplanned, but Cedric shouldn't be that surprised. After all, it's not like Wormwood ever showed particular concern for Cedric's possessions. It's _his_ now, rightfully taken. Conquered. If Cedric wanted him to leave it alone, he should have been more careful―should have been the one to watch his back for once. He should have brought him along on his quest to get it.

It's not like the sorcerer can actually _take_ the Wand back from him, anyway. From a human perspective, Cedric is such a small, scrawny thing―like a weed grown without much sunlight. Wormwood never paid any attention to his size in relation to other humans, but now it's no wonder none of them has any respect for him. He looks so young, without his sobering robe, in his knee-length breeches and magenta vest; not much more imposing than the Princess in peasant clothes. Still overly aware of his new face, Wormwood feels every muscle move as it pulls into a sneering smile.

He keeps his eyes on him until Cedric glances up again. “ _What_?” they say in one voice.

“It might take a while, finding the right spell to change you back, and in the meantime...” Cedric considers, and he gestures at him for the third time. “You know what? I'll just transmute this thing into a decent robe. Hold it up.”

Seeing his opportunity, Wormwood snatches up the black cape, grabs the Wand, and stuffs it into the purple one as he leaves it crumpled on the reading stool. A drop of chilled sweat runs down his back―but Cedric, distracted with loading his spell, doesn't seem to notice anything. _As per usual_ , he thinks, between mock and bitterness.

At the expert twirl of Cedric's wand, Wormwood's cloak changes. The material becomes heavier, the shape more defined. It is textured to the touch, bunching solidly in Wormwood's hand as he grabs it, reminiscent of velvet catching under his talons.

“You need to close it, like this. There you go~!” Cedric lilts, once the raven has driven his arms through the ample sleeves.

A long piece of black cloth, slightly more sheen and trimmed in green, awaits in the crook of Cedric's elbow, as he tugs the front around Wormwood's torso until the fabric overlaps. In a quick, precise gesture, he secures the belt at Wormwood's waist, tying it into a bow out of habit. He blinks at it after a moment, quickly redoing it into a simple slip knot.

“Now! Underwear, something all humans and human-shaped creatures need. And shoes. But... wait... give me a moment.”

Out of nowhere, Cedric's breathing became laboured. Bending forward to brace on his knees, like a weary runner, Cedric mutters that magic doesn't usually have this effect on him.

“I am not a _human_ ,” Wormwood tells him, not bothering to keep his disdain in check. The things Cedric wears all look incredibly constricting, especially that bow he always has at his neck, and the clacking contraptions at his feet. “The robe is enough.”

“Nonsense,” Cedric says, still wheezed, with a patronizing wave of his hand. “Your feet will get blisters, and you'll get them wet and catch a bad cold!”

“No shoe would fit me,” Wormwood argues, pointing down and wiggling the odd little fingers that compose human feet. “My talons are too long and arched.”

Cedric makes a pensive noise, hands on hips. “Well,” he says, sort of menacingly, “I recall someone being overdue for a trim, anyway.”

“Oh no.” With growing horror, Wormwood watches him fetch from a drawer the small clippers he uses to cut his claws. A chill runs down his back again, but for an entirely different reason. “Not the _thing_.”

“Come on, it's going to take a minute, don't be a _baby_ about it.” The sorcerer coaxes him to sit, the same way he did when Wormwood's protest was in the form of alarmed squawking. “Should I get you the treats?”

At one point, many years prior, Wormwood had to be accustomed to having his feet touched. Not an entirely unpleasant business, as it only required him to tolerate it for a second, and he'd immediately receive a little piece of meat, or a dice of apple. Rinse and repeat, until sometimes they forgot who was training who.

Cutting nails, though, is another business entirely, and he elects to avoid it whatever it takes... until he sees Cedric reach for the purple robe on the stool.

“You know what? You're right,” he says quickly, dropping seated. “One form or another, it is overdue.”

Cedric, used to never wasting momentum with Wormwood's whims, immediately kneels at his feet, folding his legs under him. Reticent―asking himself if all of this is worth delaying a discovery that will, sooner or later, happen―Wormwood puts a foot in his lap, so that he can easily hold it up, propping the heel between his thighs. It trails a bit of dirt from outside, an soot from the castle floors, but Cedric doesn't seem to mind.

Trimming nails, he always forgets, is not actually painful; just very boring and unpleasant. It requires patience and precision, because a raven's nails are so dark the quick vein can't be seen at all. Cedric snips away a bit at a time, feeling the tip with the pad of his index finger to make sure no blood is drawn, the jar of dittany ready at his side in case of accidents.

After a while, a sort of familiar torpor descends upon Wormwood, silence falling softly onto all his thoughts, until he's zoned out and over-focused all at once. He stares at the finely combed parting of Cedric's hair, his grey fringe framing what looks like a fresh scratch, a red and scabby line of dried blood. _How odd_ , he thinks drowsily, _I've never seen him bleed_.

He breathes along with the minute movement of Cedric's shoulders as his hands move and work, savouring the light touch of his pale, gloved fingers against the onyx-black skin of his feet. Cedric is kneeling for him, like a devoted vassal, and by the time the strange flutter in his stomach makes it to his conscious brain, the trimming is completed.

“All done!” Cedric pipes up, after five minutes of eternity. Still on his knees, he steeples his fingers and resumes, “Now, if you tell me how you got yourself changed in the first place, I can...”

Startled out of his trance, Wormwood shakes his head to lucidity. He should have used this time to think of a convincing lie; he has a feeling it would be a fuss if it came out he used a Wishing Well to acquire this form. He keeps his second leg where it is, preventing Cedric from getting up and reaching the spell-book.

“Leave it. I'm staying like this,” he ends up snapping. “From now on, you are going to keep that wand away from me.”

Cedric just blinks up at him. “Wormy, you're being _stupid_ about this,” he mocks, with a condescending gesture. “It's just a little spell, nothing to be afraid of!”

 _Nothing to be afraid of_. Wormwood stares down, at the nimble hands that just took care of his talons, the same way they've always done. The same hands that grabbed him without an ounce of care, and held him still even if he was scared and reluctant, to do _just a little spell_ on him, just a little experiment. Even without human speech, Wormwood always made his point clear―and Cedric would just ignore him, just like he's ignoring him now. It seems clear that becoming human changed nothing for them.

“Is that so?” Wormwood asks, his voice cold and his middle simmering with anger. “Why don't we try a little spell of mine then, instead?”

“You can use spells―you can do _magic_?” Cedric asks candidly, instantly distracted even with Wormwood's foot still grinding into his thighs, preventing him from getting up. There's genuine surprise in his voice, a spark of interest for another keen mind set to magical experimentation―Wormwood snaps himself back from the connection. Cedric already had his chance to show interest in him.

“Let me show you,” he says, letting menace grace his tone. With a deep inhale, he plunges his hand into the purple robe and retrieves the Wand, wielding it as it were his birthright.

Cedric's mouth falls open. “Is that...?” With surprising strength, he pushes Wormwood's foot off him and dives forward, grabbing Wormwood's wrist with both hands; his eyes, inspecting every twist and knot with feverish intensity, light up with recognition. “The _Family Wand_! Have I had it this whole time?!”

He makes to grab it, grinning between relief and incredulity. Wormwood snatches it away, like a wicked parody of the games they used to play back when Wormwood was barely fledged, and Cedric would dangle strings and quills and treats for him to grab, to see which of them was quicker.

“I'll be taking this,” he says, flowing to his feet. Even back then, Wormwood was usually the quickest, and his knife-sharp beak would leave v-shaped intents in Cedric's fingers, but they didn't care, they didn't need to. “I need it for my trick.”

Cedric, his hand still outstretched, stares up at him. In a moment, the open disbelief on his face hardens to annoyance.

“Wormy, don't be _absurd_ ,” he says, climbing to his feet, addressing him with the same air of condescension that makes Wormwood want to transmute him into a cockroach. “You know how powerful that wand is. I have others you can try... well, as soon as I get them b―”

“No, see,” Wormwood interjects. “This is mine now.”

At his words, the superiority finally melts off Cedric's face. In fact, the sorcerer blanches, looking stupefied for a long moment.

“Did... did _you_ have it? Have you taken it?” he croaks out, slowly, once he has swallowed enough times to get words out. The spark of interest is long gone from his wide eyes, and his smile is only a faint shadow stiffening the corner of his mouth. “Wormwood... have you _stolen_ my Family Wand?”

“I _conquered_ it.” The sorcerer opens his mouth to argue, and Wormwood has to shout over him, delivering all that he's been telling himself for the whole afternoon, “It's just like you said, the greatest instrument deserves the greatest of wielding hands. This is why I've elected to reassign this Wand to someone who can use it. Someone who _deserves_ it.”

Cedric flinches, like he's been slapped across the face, and it's _good_. Wormwood doesn't know why it comes so easy to hurt him, so natural, but the anger roars like Fiendfyre inside of him, and it burns bright in satisfaction at the crack of hurt in Cedric's voice.

“But―you _cannot_ ―I have coveted that Wand since I was still learning my _Mutato_ spells! You _know_ how important this is to me!” his voice shakes, more ripe with anxiety than anger, almost a whine. “And... this colour―what have you done to it?”

“Just a little trick,” he lies, smooth and cruel. Nostrils flaring, whole body jittering with distress, Cedric stomps his heel into the ground.

“Wormwood, how―how _could_ you?!” he gasps, overcome. Just like his eyes used to twinkle with amusement when they played their games, now too they have a faint sheen, that makes them glint in the low light. But it's not amusement. With a loud sniff, and his hands clenching into trembling fists, he implores, “This is all a joke, isn't it? It's not funny, you know it's not.”

“About our little experiment,” Wormwood cuts through, deaf to the nasal voice he can't stand anymore. “I'd need a guinea pig, but it seems that a _sorcerer_ will have to do.”

Cedric jolts back. “You surely don't mean―”

“Oh, yes. It's only fair, after I've been your lab rat for so long,” Wormwood whispers, following as Cedric scampers away from him, circling around each other in the round room, cobras in a fighting ring. He bluffs, “I believe the strength gap between us has been inverted.”

“ _Wormwood_ ,” Cedric keens, as the raven calmly stalks after him, his face schooled into severity. He watches the sorcerer back frantically into the wall, the curtains, then the stairs, hand clawing the wall for balance―and the burning beast in his chest stretches chills up his back, needle-like licks of flame, and feeds off the fear and unprecedented reverence in Cedric's voice. “I've never―never _actually_ tried out a spell on you―not a single one!”

“Because I fly fast.” He lunges with his free hand, grabbing Cedric's wrist as harshly as Cedric grabbed his feet when he sat unaware on his desk just the day before, watching him work, trusting. He has given his trust to such a pathetic, weak creature―the thought makes him sick to his stomach. “The spell I've been working on does the same. Imagine that: apparently, my wind is strong enough to blow in windows.”

“It was you?” Cedric gasps, voice low, bringing his free hand to his head. That cut... he must have fallen on his face, as per usual. Not his place to worry about it, not anymore.

“I have yet to try it on _someone_ , though. What you reckon will happen, casting one indoors?” He presses on, dangling the Wand from his claws. “You'd make a most fetching tapestry, don't you think?”

Cedric is looking everywhere but him again, left and right for an escape like a trapped mouse. With just a step further, Wormwood backs him into the table where his little play-castle lies, until his back bumps into it, making the figurines tremble. Staring down at Cedric's knitted brow, he can almost see the cogs turn in his brain.

“W-why don't you tell me about the theory first, instead?” he attempts, his voice fighting to come out, trying to overcome the anxiety that makes him shake and stutter. The pulse in Wormwood's hand is almost an undistinguishable flutter. “Wind spells are so tricky, you know how much experimentation they need before they work as intended, right? S-so let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?”

“Hm,” Wormwood pretends to consider. “Except putting things into practice is the only way to conquer kingdoms. As you pointedly keep ignoring.”

“Ah, yes, t-the empirical approach is undoubtedly important!” Cedric says in an almost-whimper. “Certainly apt for c-conquering purposes.”

He sounds like he did during those exams he used to worry about until he got sick. His wrist is shaking so hard in his grip. _What am I doing,_ Wormwood thinks, as he falls to the temptation to squeeze unnecessarily hard, to feel the bones and tendons in Cedric's arm twitch helpless into his palm. His bluff wasn't that much of a reach, he realizes, he is _so weak_ , his arm so thin and brittle; he could break it, if he wanted―just squeezing a bit more.

“How would you know?” he asks, repaying the condescension. “What do _you_ know about conquering kingdoms, anyway?”

The raven points his wand at him, and the sorcerer shrinks under him. “Well, I―” he squeaks, “when... the Amulet―”

“Will you _quit_ with the damn Amulet?!” Wormwood bellows, yanking the sorcerer so hard his shoulder collides with the play-castle, knocking it off the table. “It took me _one_ meal at the King's table to realise how nonsense your plan is. You never had anything concrete. All these years―you had me run around and do your bidding! For _nothing_!”

Cedric is not looking at him. His eyes are to the floor, on the jagged bits of wood that were once handcrafted merlons and towers, coats of arms with the raven on a green field. The figurines, scattered around them, animate at the wave of Wormwood's wand. Tears well up in Cedric's eyes, and he says nothing.

“The people love this King. No one will follow your stupid rules. They will rally against you.”

“That's why I've been waiting!” Cedric strains, free hand clenched to get his voice out. He kicks away the dolls that poke at his feet with their toothpick spears, stomping his foot. “I need the Amulet's powers―so no one will stand in my way!”

“The Royal Family will surely try. And what are you planning to do, then?” Wormwood asks, five crowned dolls levitate until their scribbled little faces are eye level with Cedric. In Goodwyn's most stern voice, the voice from cramming sessions and pre-exam grilling, he yells, “ _Answer me!_ ”

A strange, fix-eyed look has frozen the sorcerer's features. Without looking at Wormwood, or really anywhere, he breathes, “E-exile them...?”

“Nonsense. They would reach to their allies, come after you, and you'll be overthrown and put to death. You will have to be faster: block all trade routes, and execute the royals before they do it to you.”

He makes the figurines' little heads pop off their bodies with a small crunch. Like the castle, they were handcrafted with magic, during many evenings on the reading stool, back to the windowpane, feet in front of the space-heater, just the two of them. Wormwood is seized by the need to destroy their life in front of that heater.

Ruthless, he follows, “And Sofia too, of course: the Amulet's true owner must be destroyed. But it won't be a problem, will it? You already came so close to doing it, once.”

The raven watches a convulse shudder crawl up Cedric's back as the last little head crunches off. He turns away, eyes screwed shut and his mouth trembling, as if Wormwood's words were daggers at his throat.

“I―that time was―” Cedric manages, breathless, as if talking took him the strength to move a mountain. “I was not myself. You know that, you were there.”

“Oh, I was there alright,” the raven says, softly, dangerously. “You transformed me without even asking. I barely made it out alive.”

At a loss for words, Cedric doesn't reply. He doesn't talk often of their time as Sea Monsters, of what the spell did to his mind for the brief, disastrous time he was under it. He doesn't speak of the instincts eating away that thin layer of morality he keeps clinging to, nor of the remorseless murder that almost touched his hand.

That time, Wormwood had been intrigued: was Cedric really about to make the Princess _vanish_ , blast her off the face of the world forever? Disappearing someone does lack a certain gory artistry, but Wormwood had never thought Cedric capable of _killing_.

The remorse came after, biting chunks off his sleep, pushing him to hide what happened even from the insightful eye of his mother. Ever since he was a child, there were certain lines Cedric wouldn't cross, certain parts of his mother's anecdotes that kept him awake at night. For the longest time, Wormwood had wondered what stopped him, what invariably pushed him to self-sabotage; and to think now that it was nothing more than fear... to Wormwood, the distinction is incomprehensible; human world or animal world, the stakes seem to be the same. Victory, or death.

“But once you kill them all,” Wormwood goes on, “the people will come after you, their torches lit and their pitchforks sharp, to avenge the silly little royals they love so. And will you be prepared, then, to kill off half this village? To fight the guards of this very castle? To fight the curses the Amulet will punish your deeds with?”

“Enough!” Cedric shudders again, shying from the very idea of killing the damn brat. “I won't, wouldn't―I didn't think this far, but I wouldn't―”

“You are just afraid, the same _coward_ you've always been,” Wormwood says coldly, and though he knows where he's aiming, this time he is the one who can't quite look. “Some pathetic failure who has _nothing,_ except a place he doesn't deserve.”

“L-let go of me, I'll think of another way, something better,” he hears Cedric's voice beg, someplace under him. He can't look. “Let go, you're s-scaring me.”

“Oh, am I?” he snarls, giving another yank to the arm in his hand, sharp talons cutting through the thin shirt. “Doesn't feel so good when it's done to you, does it?”

He shoves Cedric's arm away from him, as if it were some crawling insect. With a noise of ripped fabric, his nails come away trailing blood behind them. He refuses to look.

“I'm _sorry―_!” Cedric yelps, voice cracking in a pained cry. “I promise, I will never do it again!”

“What good are the promises of someone like you?” he snarls, the Wand forgotten as he lunges again and seizes the sorcerer by the throat. “You are _disgusting_.”

His hand squeezes in with satisfaction, the neck not offering much more girth or resistance than the wrist. He lifts Cedric off the floor, his body dangling like a weightless rag from his grasp, feeling his feet kick helplessly at his shins, his short useless nails sink into the back of his hand.

“Please, I―” Cedric chokes, gasping and stuttering, reduced to a laboured rattling of air against his palm. “This time―this time I will―”

“Nothing but some pathetic, grovelling thing,” Wormwood hisses. “I cannot _believe_ I have tolerated you all these years. You revolt me. Get out.”

At his words, some desperate fire blazes in Cedric's eyes, narrow and watering in his flushed face. Even his spasming throat seems to stiffen, pulse and sinew biting back into Wormwood's palm.

“ _You_ get out!” he snarls through clenched teeth, reaching to kick him in the stomach and yanking his hand until Wormwood's grip relents enough to let him talk. “This is _my_ lair! _You_ can go, if you can't _tolerate_ me anymore―is my father's Wand not enough for you? This is _my_ place!”

“Says who? I've been here for as long as you have,” Wormwood snarls back, pulling his hand up higher so the limp kicks can't brush him anymore. Everything in his chest has hardened to one solid block, no leaks, no tight feeling. The lie comes to him, perfect and deadly like a poisoned arrow, and he needn't look to aim true. He draws his arm back, holds his breath, and shoots. “In fact, the King wants _me_ as the new Royal Sorcerer.”

Still dangling from the grasp of his hand, Cedric stops struggling. All traces of emotion wipe from his face, a blank slate devoid of anger, fear, indignation. The colour drains away until he's left a pale, wide-eyed statue―a likeness of himself that will shatter to pieces when Wormwood lets go of it.

“What...?” Cedric breathes, his voice a feeble exhale with no trace of tone behind it. “King Roland has...?”

“That's right. No one wants you here.” With a flick of Wormwood's wand, the backdoor slams open. He strides forward, releases his grip and lets Cedric fall to the ground. “ _Out_.”

He doesn't shatter. He just falls onto the landing in a heap. When he tries to climb back to his feet, Wormwood conjures a blast to hit him, sending him to disappear out, out, out, into the wall of rain pouring as waterfalls off the eaves.

The backdoor slams shut, an inch from Wormwood's nose. He stands in the dark, blood roaring in his ears, breathing as hard as when the pain of transformation was changing him. What has he been changed into? He looks down at his hands, and only then realizes he tore loose Cedric's yellow bow.

He wraps it around his fist and tugs, certain it will be enough to rip it. It does not rip.

The raven turns away from the door, but as the rumble of his blood quiets down, the silence swallows him all at once, and he cannot move a step. Wormwood steps back, thudding his shoulders into the doorframe. He slides down it until he's sitting, alone in the dark, stolen tower, his hands full of stolen things.

Upstairs, on the stool they used to sit on to plot together, still full of warmth and keys, the purple sorcerer's robe lies forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A+ premises there, Wormwood.


	5. Foxfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sofia saves the night, dreams are prophetic, and the woods are unfriendly.

Cedric doesn't know how long it takes him to get back on his feet.

Maybe it has been five minutes, maybe he has spent several lifetimes there, half of him on the stone path and half in the grass. Maybe the seasons have changed, the world has stopped spinning, the stacks out at sea have crumbled, and it was all a horrible dream. The rain falls cold in his face, hammering his stricken body, and as a puddle forms around him, he wonders if it would be enough to drown in.

He lies unmoving, numbed to the marrow, until his limbs regain sensitivity and start to lose it again from cold instead of shock. When he attempts to turn and lift himself up, the shot of pain in his back is so sharp and sudden he breaks into coughs, curving on his side, the icy wet cobblestones biting into his cheek and fingers.

 _I can't stay here all night_ , he thinks distantly, through the gluey fog in his mind.

His hands are ghostly blue through the streaks of dirt on them, as he presses down into the drenched grass and slowly, as if he were stacking his bones upright one at a time, he forces himself to his feet. Then, injured arm held tight against his body, knees shaking so hard each step staggers, he starts walking.

So cold he isn't quite shivering anymore, he wanders for a long time, trying to stay sheltered under the drooping eaves. But the rain is coming down at an angle, soaking him from head to toe, washing the mud off him in waves of icy shards. He has the vague impression that his whole middle fell out, leaving a hole where he used to have bones and organs. He keeps walking.

He circles the castle, leaving wet prints on every doorknob until he finds one that turns, and he can finally make his way back inside. Only the sound of his own dragging steps accompanies him through the echoing corridors and slowly, as the contrast of temperature puts a painful itch in his chilled limbs, thoughts start coming back to him. They seem muffled, as if he were trying to hear someone's voice while underwater; everything is rarefied, a dream through rain-streaked windows. A deserted castle, with no one in sight.

 _Were you expecting to be sent on your way in the middle of the night?_ Cedric scoffs at himself. Wormwood's words still ring in his ears, as remote as a distant memory and then closer, louder, until they kick him back into the present. _No one wants you here._

 _Oh no,_ he thinks, halting in the middle of a staircase. _I'll be banished_. He grabs the railing with a trembling, blue-nailed hand. _First thing in the morning, for sure_. He can already see Baileywick's satisfied face, King Roland clapping and waving, everyone's relief at finally getting rid of him. They'll sing a song about it―how he got thrown out of his own tower―

 _How could he do this to me?_ Wormwood’s betrayal burns like a scorch mark―he can't think about it for more than a moment without feeling all the air get squeezed out of his chest, a wave of nausea that makes him sway on his feet. His own loyal companion, going after the Wand, of all things...

 _What will Father think―?_ Goodwyn's approval flickers and disappears in his mind, a snuffed out candle. He couldn't even get used to that little warmth, and it's already gone―and _Mother_... he doesn't even want to imagine what Mother will say.

Will they even want to talk to him, this disgrace of a son their combined talents somehow created, if he had the guts to look them in the eye again? The blood chills in his veins. _They'll disown me_. And after that, his job and his place in the castle lost forever, he'll fall to disgrace and will have to travel to another kingdom where no one knows his name and starve in the streets performing tricks for a few coins―

 _I must hide_ , says something in him, in a child's voice, as he stands paralysed, still clinging to the railing for dear life. The castle has plenty of empty rooms... he could live in secret somewhere, Transport himself away when someone comes to check, conjure food when he's hungry―he must move, he just has to reach the first floor, and hide until... they come looking for him, then at least he still has his everyday wand, right?―in fevered urgency, he grabs the tatters of his green sleeve. Nothing.

His heart gives a strangled leap, his body freezing in fright where he stands. He has no wand on him―he's completely uncovered. He must have left it on the floor, he thinks, when Wormwood produced the Family Wand and... let Cedric think he had found it for him― _How could he?!_

But he knows exactly how Wormwood could do it. The raven told him―shouted it, in fact. _A pathetic failure who has nothing, except a place he doesn't deserve._ Bit by bit, his middle clenches on itself, as if collapsing under a terrible weight. Wormwood's hand is still there, the ghost of five fingers blocking his airway, too tight to be real―he can't hold still anymore.

His legs carry him up this staircase and another and another, dripping water throughout the corridors, until he finds himself standing in front of Sofia's room, staring down at the handle as if unsure how it got there.

It would make sense, he tries to reason, telling Sofia.

She knows who this _visiting sorcerer_ is, and he knows she will keep his secrets if he asks her to. Despite her young age, Sofia is accustomed to dealing with problems without help, and keeps a few secrets of her own. No one but the two of them knows her Amulet is enchanted, for starters. And when the royal family wouldn't believe her on the Floating Palace, she went to fight his Sea Monster form all by herself.

And, no matter how loud the voices shout that it will eventually happen―he just can't picture her laughing with the others when they take him away. _Just because she doesn't know what kind of lowly, worthless thing you really are_ , Wormwood's voice hisses, ringing in his ears. _If she knew, she'd deplore you. Just like I do. Just like everyone else._

He shakes his head. He can't seek out a child for his troubles, he can't add this humiliation on top of the pile―

 _She owes me_ , he argues. Regardless of second or third motives, he did help her out many times... he surely is in credit in the favour department, isn't he? _No, you're not. You'll never be._ He surely made up for the time he almost killed her. _She doesn't know. If she knew..._ if his dearest, oldest companion had been despising him all along... _That's what you do to people_ , the voice hisses. _You are just some pitiful thing she feels sorry for. How could you ever deserve her friendship? Or anyone's friendship, really? You are nothing._

“Come in!” Sofia's high voice calls from the other side of the door, cutting through all the voices arguing in his head like a sunbeam through the clouds. His treacherous hand, deaf to all internal debates, already knocked. He hears her short steps tap closer, until she opens the door and smiles up at him. “Good evening, B―oh, Mr. Cedric?!”

He is unexpected, of course. Sofia runs a hand over the hem of her nightgown, her smile unfaltering, the surprise clear in her wide eyes.

“Hello,” he rasps. His voice barely made it out of his aching throat, like he didn't have enough air to finish a single word, the wheeze of something ran over and left to die on the side of the road. It's the same strangled voice he would hear come out of himself during exams, teachers bending over their desks to hear better, stern scowls on their faces and points already shaved off his grade―the voice that makes him mess up his spells when people are watching.

As her eyes trail down his figure, Sofia's smile slowly dims. “Uhh, what hap―” she starts, but then something at the end of the hallway catches her attention. There must be someone―before he can look, she has grabbed his hand and has dragged him inside. He lets himself be pulled, zoning out until the door of her walk-in closet is shut in his face. Sofia whispers, “I'm sorry, wait in here just a moment.”

Cedric blinks at the door, eyes adjusting to the half-light until he can make out the rows and rows of hanging gowns. He's standing, soaked and shivering, in a child's closet. He puts his forehead to the door, defeated, and listens to the muffled sounds on the other side. Baileywick's voice, a tinkling of china cups. Scraping of iron poker in the fireplace. Goodnight wishes. Cedric's gaze fixes down, on the water slowly dripping off him, in a small pool at his feet.

He's caught by surprise when Sofia opens the door, blinded by the light in the room and thrown off balance. She catches his arm, and keeps him upright.

“I told Baileywick I was chilly,” she says, pointing at the crackling fire. Her little play-date table and chairs are arranged in front of it, as if ready for a miniature tea party. On the table, impeccably disposed on a crochet doily, the goodnight snack the Steward must have brought: a small tray of butter biscuits, and a mug of steaming hot cocoa. “Come, shoes off, and warm yourself up!”

Sofia has a big pink towel over her arm. She has him crouch in one of the small chairs, and lasso-throws the towel over his shoulders to pat him dry.

“There,” she says. He bends a little bit, so that she can flip the towel over his head. Sofia watches him shiver, as the fire warms life back into his aching body, a slight air of reprimand on her features. “Mr. Cedric, did you... by chance lock yourself out of your tower?”

In the process of removing his shoes and socks to let them dry by the fire, her poignant question startles him. He almost falls off his chair. “How did you―?”

“Just a guess,” she says with a light shrug. Her small hands rub the towel into his hair, careful not to pull on it or hit his ears. She throws a glance at the window. “I don't think anyone would be outside on purpose. It's really coming down, isn't it?”

He has barely the strength gesture to himself, and nod. “Evidently.”

“But imagine, how green and bright the grass will be tomorrow!” Sofia smiles. The thought of tomorrow seems so far away, like a distant echo, and way too near all at once. He shudders, and his back cramps in pain. The Princess, leaving the towel on his shoulders, sobers up. “Why don't we have a sleepover? There's lots of space, and I like sleeping in the window-seat when it rains, anyway. And you can finally eat something.”

Cedric glances over the room, from the cream-coloured sheets of her bed―the spread neatly folded at the bottom, the fluffy pillows ready to accommodate the child's auburn head―to the bedtime snack put together especially for her, with her favourite mug and favourite cookies. He'd want to say he doesn't _need_ to stay there, he doesn't _need_ her to give up her bed―he has coveted the crown for years, but now he doesn't even have it in him to take over a single room. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Would you like a tour of my room?” Sofia's voice startles him again, pulling him out of his reverie. He just blinks at her, earning himself a chuckle. “I also was soaked when you offered me a tour of your workshop, last year, remember?”

“Oh,” he answers weakly, in a shaky murmur, “of course.”

“That day was the _worst_ day.” A pause. Carefully, she asks, “Did you... end up having a bad day too?”

He inhales sharply, holding back with all he's got. He cannot bear to look into her earnest eyes, and the admission crawls out of his throat like a spider out of a dry, empty pipe.

He croaks, “The worst.”

“I'm sorry,” Sofia murmurs, reaching to pat his arm. The arm that Wormwood―he can't stop himself from flinching, and Sofia pulls back like he burned her. Her eyes drop, and he's not quick enough to cover his ripped sleeve. Sofia gasps, “What happened to your shirt? Are you hurt?”

Her little hands pry away the hand he's hiding with, and he can't really fight her.

“Princess, it's fine, I just fell,” he protests, in a way more anxious tone than intended. He gives her a tight smile, the best he can do. He's not lying, he tells himself, he really did fall. Trice on the same arm, actually. “See? No need to worr―no, wait, don't look!”

“Oh, good, it's just scratches,” Sofia breathes in relief, as she delicately folds his sleeve to uncover the wounds. On his forearm, a blotchy mess of rubor and pasty white against the rosy colour of Sofia's fingers, are four parallel scores, ugly but not too deep. “I got really scared for a moment. Do you think I've never seen a bit of blood before? Wait here.”

She dashes to the closet, and comes back holding her little camping first aid kit. She scoots the second chair closer to his, and gestures for him to put his arm on the table.

“At least they're clean,” she notes, dabbing a cotton ball with vinegar. “Now, this might sting a little.”

“I certainly was queasier when I was your age― _ow_ ,” he mutters. His nose wrinkles at the pungent smell, and he hisses at the sting, and if his eyes start watering at least now he has a good excuse.

Sofia chuckles. “Nothing a Buttercup can't handle!”

She is smiling, but the worry comes through in the arch of her eyebrows, the glances she keeps throwing at his face. She passes some salve on his arm, so the scabs won't be too dry, and pauses.

“Funny, it almost looks like a clawed hand―wait a minute,” Sofia says, depressing the skin with her index, eyes narrowing. In the light of the fire, the red outlines of fingers make what happened as clear as inked words on his skin, and he has nowhere to hide. “Mr. Cedric... did Wormwood do this?”

He goes tense all over, his hand grabbing the edge of the small table before he can do anything to control it. The gaping chasm in his chest, briefly forgotten, opens under him all over again.

“Oh, h-he was just acting up,” he stutters, breathless. “He does it all the time. You know how birds are.”

The child's face scrunches up, unconvinced. She wraps his arm in clean gauze, apparently deep in thought.

“But he's not a bird now,” she says after a while, very seriously, “Mr. Cedric, I think you need to explain to Wormwood that it's really not okay to do things like these. Not now that he's a human.”

“He is still a raven, Princess,” he echoes, hollow. “He wouldn't understand. It's fairly normal for them to be...” _treacherous, destructive, right about everything_ , “to play a bit rough.”

Sofia tilts her head, as if something were not quite clear.

“I'm sure he can be reasoned with,” she says eventually. “If you talk to him, he'll understand he's much stronger now, and he’ll learn to be more careful. And that it's just not right to hit others.”

Cedric looks at her, thinking of all the times Cordelia flicked quills in his face, how many times Greylock pushed him down the Hexley Hall staircase, or made his potions explode on purpose, how many times Roland twisted back his arm to get him to promise something or cover for him. How many times wands have served as switches during his apprenticeship. But all this was many years ago, he reasons, times have changed. And he never got a scratch on him anyway so, he supposes, it shouldn't count.

In the meantime, Sofia has given his sleeve a couple of stitches just to hold it together, and put away the kit. When she nudges the lilac mug between his limp, frost-nipped hands, he can feel the heat of it as if it were melting the skin off his palms.

“I thought someone had skipped dessert,” he teases, feeling some semblance of smile tug at his numb face. He nudges the tray back, not quite hungry, and the Princess' rosy cheeks colour a little bit.

“Oh, I said that so you'd recognise Wormwood from his laugh,” she says with a small shrug, tucking her hair behind her ear. He is reminded of the time she exculpated him for the griffin's crimes, saving him from being dragged to the dungeon. She really _is_ good at riddles. “But if you insist, I guess we can share it.”

He sips the over-sweet hot cocoa from the cozy lilac mug. It is not so hot as to burn his throat, but as his stomach fills with warmth, his eyes sting all the same. This is probably the last hot drink he'll be able to savour in a while.

“Do you wanna tell me why you guys had a fight?” she inquires after a while, wiping crumbs off her face. Cedric's guts somersault and twist into knots, so suddenly he has to put the mug down before the tremble in his hands can make him drop it. Sofia winces a bit at the clatter of china on wood. “I'm sorry, it's just... I know how upsetting it is to fight with your best friends, and―”

“No, no, Princess,” he cuts her off, pushing words out through his locked jaw. He clears his throat, grimacing in pain. “It's nothing of the sorts. You'd be quite upset too if you were going to be... replaced, like some old rag.”

Sofia blanches. “What?” she gasps. “You are _leaving_?”

“Oh, yes,” he follows, smiling uncomfortably. “Just imagine, a better Princess waltzes in, she gets your room and board and _kablui_!” He shoos his hands towards the exit. “You're out the door.”

“Oh,” Sofia murmurs. She sounds grief-stricken. “But... but you can't be replaced!”

He heaves a sigh. He's seen Wormwood do all those perfect tricks, making up in confidence what he lacked in form, after less than a day of having magic. Using the _Family Wand_ , no less. Cedric started to see a glimpse of that prowess only in his tenth year of study, and only in the privacy of an empty classroom and the safety of his teacher's eye. Put like this, it's obvious that the raven _deserves_ his place... just like Wormwood himself said.

“Turns out my raven is a far better sorcerer than I am. Very _gifted_ ,” he grits out, spitting the word like venom. If he keeps talking, he knows he'll crumble, right under Sofia's eyes, consumed by shame as the logs burning fast in the fire. “He―he told me the King already decided... that he'll be taking over my charge as Royal Sorcerer.”

After all, Roland had always wanted nothing more than to get rid of him. Ever since...

“Mr. Cedric,” Sofia says, her soft features taking a sharper edge, lips thinning into a line, “I was there the whole time, and Dad said nothing of the sort. He just asked him to help out this one time,” she assures. She sounds angry, almost offended. “Wormwood is _lying_.”

Cedric stares at her, in stunned silence, for a few long moments.

“Are you _sure_?” he attempts to say, but his voice cracks, and it comes out as an high-pitched keen that prompts the Princess to spring to her feet and clasp his good hand in both of hers.

“Don't worry, Mr. Cedric!” she says vehemently. “You _literally_ can't be replaced! The charge is hereditary, Dad told me himself. And you wouldn't be replaced that easily, even if you could! Not now that everyone is starting to see how great you are.”

“R-right,” he mumbles, blinking down at the table. He frees his hand to pull the tray to him, and nibbles on a biscuit, thinking as the salty butter melts on his tongue. Sofia is right, of course: the charge being hereditary is in fact the reason he was able to keep his job in the first place, before Sofia came along. Right. What Wormwood said must have reeled him into panic, and forgo all logic. “He... he said it to trick me.”

Sofia clicks her tongue, shaking her head like a disappointed schoolteacher. “Unbelievable.”

“I don't know what got into him,” Cedric murmurs. “I... guess I didn't know him as well as I thought.”

He can barely let his mind go there, to the thought that his lifelong companion... hated him all along―but why would he stay all these years, and share Cedric's dreams, when he could have been flying free? If he thought so lowly of him, and was convinced Cedric could never reach the ambitions they shared―was he only using him for the advantages of being a kept animal in a royal castle? _Took you long enough, you dimwit_ , says the insinuating little voice.

“Was he very angry, when he said those things to you?” Sofia postulates. He just nods, miserable. Wormwood seemed _furious_. “Well, you can't help getting angry sometimes. It's no excuse to be _mean_ , though,” she says, somewhat understanding. “Did you make him human by accident, maybe?”

“No, I haven't, _it's not my fault!_ ” he shouts, rejecting the accusation way too vehemently, words a garbled, rushed mess. Sofia just tilts her head at him, not questioning when he covers his mouth like a child that said a bad word. Through his fingers, he hisses, “All this... he did by himself, and won't tell me how! When I tried to turn him back to normal, he got angry and―started telling me how this... _project_ , that we have been working on together for years... he told me my ideas were all... worthless and idiotic, and that it would never work.”

His voice is coming out in thick, choked jerks, and his bruised throat aches like it's being scraped from the inside from how hard he's keeping tears down―but Sofia doesn't laugh at him, not even one bit.

“That's _awful_ ,” she says. “Maybe, I can help you with your project, and then we can show him! You'll see, he'll surely change his mind.”

Cedric looks at her, for a moment overcome with the temptation of _telling_ her―disclosing all his plans, as confessions in the merciful ears of a friar, to the only person who would be sad to see him gone―confide in the kinship they always shared, their common desire to prove themselves.

“Better not,” he saves, self-consciously rubbing the underside of his nose with his intact sleeve. “Advanced magic is tricky, I can't involve an amateur―an amul―I mean, an _apprentice_.”

“Right!” Sofia says, without getting offended, at ease with her level. “I'll just cheer for you, then.”

When he was her age, it was already clear that he hadn't inherited his father's genius. He used to have fits over it, freezing up in class and systematically failing anything that could resemble a performance. How many tears he cried... only Wormwood knows. He shudders.

“Oh, speaking of magic,” Sofia pipes up, index finger raised in sudden thought. “I have your crystal ball! You forgot it earlier.”

Cedric follows her pointing finger, to the shabby puppet theatre he built the previous year. Sofia keeps it parked in the play area of her room, for some reason. She says she uses it to play charades with her animal friends. Currently, the century old scrying globe sits in front of the little curtains, like a prop for some cheap street magic show. It tears a smile from him, albeit a weak one.

“Excellent, thank you,” he manages. “Please keep it for the moment. I don't know when I'll have my tower back, and I'm sure it's safe in your hands. It's a very important famil―” Father came to mind, and the thought threatens to make him chunder the few biscuits he had. He has to swallow, and try again. “―family heirloom.”

With her keen senses, Sofia hits the proverbial nail on the head, “Mr. Cedric, maybe you should tell your parents what happened?” He just snorts, a brief derisive snicker that makes the Princess fuss to explain, “I mean, who transformed Wormwood if you didn't? It could be really serious, and you might need their help―”

A full-blown laugh erupts from somewhere in him, and he can do nothing to stop it. A dissonant cackle that sounds sick to his own ears, pulling painfully at his cheeks like an overly fond aunt. Sofia watches him, bemused, as he covers his face waiting for the fit to die down.

“Princess,” he croaks darkly, shoulders still shaking in mirthless laughter, “he did it on purpose.” Inhale, exhale. “You know the Family Wand, that you helped me acquire just yesterday? He took it for himself. He said I―don't deserve it. I cannot let my father know.”

“He did _what_?!” Sofia yells, her voice reaching new heights of pitch. All traces of sympathy and understanding have left her face, her hands planted on her hips. “Mr. Cedric, you should _really_ tell your parents about this. I'm _sure_ they will help.”

“But I cannot!” He shakes his head, drying fringe still sticking to his skin. “It took so much for Father to entrust the Wand to me! If he knew I lost it...”

“You didn't lose it, it was _taken_ from you!”

“Honestly, Princess, you've seen what my father is like. He'll never understand... he'll just think I messed up.” He sighs, and adds, lower, “Like I always do.”

Side by side, they watch the fire die down. Sofia, arms crossed and head tilted to the side, appears deep in thought. Now that she's met his parents, she has to see how he's caught in a perpetual conundrum: if he keeps his secrets, he'll face consequences alone when they backfire; if he asks for help, his parents will never trust him to take decisions by himself again. _And maybe they, too, were right all along_.

It's getting late, and the whole day is taking its toll on him. In the easy silence they adapt to, Sofia gathers the mug on the tray, and quietly goes to wash her teeth. He's thinking he'll just skip for tonight, but she comes back with a spare―pink―toothbrush already loaded with sage and salt paste, and he can't be bothered to argue his case.

“Are you sure you want to sleep there?” she asks as he tiptoes, barefoot on the cold floor, to the window-seat. Sort of pensively, she adds, “You'll be cold without your robe.”

From the chest at the bottom of her bed, where she keeps the treasures from her previous life, she pulls a ratty patchwork blanket. It might have been red once in its lifetime, and he wrinkles his nose at it when Sofia holds it out for him.

“Here. This is special, my mom made it. I've had it since I was a baby,” she says simply, and when he reluctantly takes it the smell of faded dye and motherly hands reaches him, and he's finally defeated. He drapes the thing over his shoulders, and with the excuse of keeping it closed, he clings to it like a lifeline. He bites hard into his lower lip, looking away from Sofia, blinking furiously.

Sofia says her goodnights, patting him softly on his good arm. She lets him take the window-seat, climbs into bed, and dims out her lamp.

Only wakeful thing in the silent room, waiting for sleep to bring him relief, Cedric watches the wind lash the rain into the window, as waves over a still sea. Curled on the window-seat too short for his legs, knees chattering against the glass, he falls to unrestful stillness, and starts dreaming before he's even fully asleep.

  
  


In the dream, he's a little boy clinging to Mother's hand.

They are walking back from the forest to the village, and his round toed shoes patter hurriedly on the well trodden trail, nettles lashing his bare legs. It took him all his courage to go outside, but it paid off, just like Mother said. The late spring smells sweet and brackish, and in his other hand, tucked into the fold of his shirt, nestles the little weight of a baby raven.

In the quiet Northern village where they live, waiting for Father all year, the bells are chiming a cheerful melody of golden Sundays, silvery as children's voices. _Just a bit longer,_ Mother says, _just a bit longer and we can all go to the castle. And you'll start school, and you'll grow up alongside Prince Roland, like blood-brothers._

 _And 'Delia won't steal my things anymore,_ he adds, but Mother pretends he hasn't spoken. Or maybe she hasn't heard him.

The bells ring their chime, a call to joy. To go trample anthills, throw rocks at the foxes, jostle on broomsticks that don't even fly... and all the other things he sees boys do when he looks down into the street from his bedroom window. When they see him look, they point up and yell _Witch-boy, Witch-boy!_ because of his white streaks.

Since the sea almost swallowed him whole, he hasn't gone outside much. Mother says she's proud of him for surviving. Father wrote back that almost dying of clumsiness is nothing to be proud of.

He used to be fond of the shore just off the seastacks, where the waves lap the small rounded stones, in a soothing rustle, and the tide coming in can always be spotted from afar. He liked to kick his shoes off and dangle his legs from the goose barnacle-covered quay, letting the cold sea bite at his ankles. He'd feed kale and bits of boiled eggs from his lunch to the hooded crows that dance on the muddy banks in a frolic of black and grey feathers. He thought, if he took their side in the turf war with the seagulls, maybe one of the crows would become his friend, and warn him of any traps of rock that lie ahead.

The baby raven is supposed to keep an eye on him, Mother says. But for now, he's so young he can't even fly, all ugly goosebumps and bulging eyes. The raven, too, fell into a hole―the hollow of a fallen tree―and he had to climb to pull him out, and his legs are still shaking from it.

 _Where are we going?_ he asks, tugging lightly towards the sound. As usual, Mother doesn't answer immediately.

A wind rises when they step out of the forest, and the chiming it brings is slower, solemn. The memory has morphed into dream. A crow's high cry reaches them, much more distant than it seems. When he looks down, in his hand there is no bundle of sparse feathers, no bleary green eyes.

Instead, taking up the whole of his small palm, there is a purple jewel, too heavy to hold.

The Amulet dangles from his free hand, chain cutting into his palm like it's trying to pass through it. The book he nicked from the Royal Library says the Amulet of Avalor has voices that can teach its wearer the most powerful secrets of Magical Arts. So far, he has heard nothing, so he follows the distant caw, and the chiming of bells.

 _To the castle_ , Mother says, eventually, _you are going to be your father's apprentice, his very special helper. You will assist him with his spells and potions, tidy up the place and so forth._

 _But I already have the Amulet,_ he tries arguing, squinting up at Mother's face, backlit in the blazing sundown. He waves the Amulet up high. Can't she see it? Can't she see him? _I don't need to be an apprentice anymore, I can be King!_

They go up the tower where Father works, and the endless stone staircase puts cramps in his short legs. Mother's grip moves to his wrist: she lifts him up for each step, long nails sinking into his shirt. _You'll be fine_ , she says. _If you love Mummy, you'll see you're meant to be. And Mummy loves you too._

 _Well, what have we here?_ Father is a daemonic figure, as tall as the door and shrouded in cauldron smoke. He bends over him, and Cedric cannot breathe or speak, and the Amulet he stole weights so much it imprints in his hand. _A little magpie?_

 _I'm your son,_ he finally manages, voice shaking. He wants to hide behind Mother, but she's nowhere to be found.

 _Are you? This is sub-par even for a first year._ The sky is dark but the curtains are still drawn, and he has not rested in so long. Father rips the fissured wand from his hands. On the dark stone walls he starts seeing the sneering faces of his classmates, laughing, laughing. Father asks every question like he wants an answer, like he's supposed to know. _Who will I leave my charge to? Who will I leave the Family Wand to? Who will take care of this kingdom, once I'm gone?_

Mummy loves him, therefore he's meant to be. He's meant to be, therefore Mummy loves him. _If you were meant to be, your grades wouldn't be such a disaster_ , Father says, expression gone from sardonic to grim, and the words hurt like glass shards in his face, like the scalding ladle in his bare hands. _You'll be expelled. You'll never wield the Family Wand. You'll have to run away and change your name and play tricks for spare change._

 _But you keep interrupting me!_ He finally blurts out. The classmates laugh and laugh at his voice that cracks so easily, at the witch-boy that bawls at the drop of a hat.

 _Excuses, excuses,_ Father says. His precise, effortless forms shine a bright light over his first attempts charred in the hardwood desk. Everyone claps, ecstatically. _This kingdom has seen many sorcerers, but none quite as bad as you. If we were at war, you'd doom us all._

 _But I'm meant to be!_ he yells, desperate. His father has turned his back, and the smoke surrounded him―he's all alone in the stifling tower, with a spitting cauldron he doesn't know how to manage. Its just like being trapped beneath the rising tide, all over again, buried in water like a seed in soil―but he won't grow into a rose, not a ragweed or mugworth stem. He won't grow into anything. _You are nothing, you have nothing, except this place you don't deserve._

Where is the baby raven now, if he has never plucked him from the hollow of the tree? He wonders, looking at the Amulet now welded to his hand.

 _There's the thief!_ The King accuses, slamming the door open, pointing wildly. The jewel is stuck to him, caught red-handed, and he can't deny, can't explain, can't speak at all. In the darkest of dungeons, where the guards drag him― _A likely story. Guards, seize him!_ ―there is a hole.

They throw him in like he weighs nothing, and hitting the water at the bottom he hits the waterfall of rain outside of his tower, he hits the Ocean's surface with the too many limbs of his monstrous form, he hits the treacherous tide of his childhood slip. He climbs onto the throne down there, standing on tiptoes to keep himself out of the water―but the water pours and pours from his wet robes, pools at his feet, rising, rising, soon touches his ankles in a chilling bite.

The cheerful chime of the bells is now a fast, urgent ring, a call for arms and fleeing―it drowns out his slight child's voice as he cries for help, stutters and slips and fails a Floating spell, alone and doomed. The water rises. He clutches the Amulet to his chest, letting it bury itself in his skin, sink into his heart like a thorn.

 _The kingdom is at war_ , a deep voice drawls above him, when all is lost. _The people want your head on a pike._

The little raven he never picked up has the face of a man, and great black wings. He is a vision of awe and horror, long feathers drawing in all the light, eyes of ruthless jade and cold grasp of arched talons.

 _Old friend,_ Cedric begs, stretching his free arm, up, up, leaping from the submerged throne like a fledgeling trying to fly. _Old friend, I wasn't meant to be._ When he's about to be submerged, Wormwood reaches down, and lays a hand upon his heart. He finds his breath into that hand, in the crease of a smile in Wormwood's perfect, stony face _. Please, don't abandon me!_

 _You were the one to abandon me._ Wormwood's hand closes in a fist, slicing his chest open as he rips the Amulet from him. He gasps above the water, but Wormwood's hand pushes him down, until he goes under. _The pitchforks will find you drowned._

 _I have not―!_ he cries, choking on a lungful of water, sharp as a kick in the sternum. The raven's eyes burn in his cold face, full of reprimand. _You have to believe me! You at least! Please―_

 _The kingdom is flooding,_ Wormwood drones in Baileywick's voice. No surprise, no more contempt. His failure was expected, only a matter of time. All along, he was nothing, he’s always been nothing. The water rises, and Wormwood's hand in his chest keeps him trapped on the throne, one and the same, a captain and his ship, sharing the same destiny. _You have doomed us all, King Cedric._

The chime of the bells, once cheerful, is now a death knell. A call for mourning.

* * *

The raven's breath comes harsh and shallow in the still air of the tower.

The spiralling coil of books has no answers for his swearing and invocations, and neither do the grim-faced paintings scowling at him from the silent stone walls. His fingers tremble, and when he presses, the damn clippers twist out of his unsteady grip. Another of his claws snaps in half.

“ _Drat_ ,” Wormwood hisses through clenched teeth, watching the blood from his quickened veins bead and drip down his fingers. “Again?!”

He kneels on the floor of the workshop, Wand held in his mouth his only light source. The candles, though he's sure he got the clapping sequence right, wouldn't turn on for him. In the Wand's dim halo, he smashes the dittany jar on the floor and dips his bleeding nails in the small puddle.

He only wanted to shorten them, because when he punched the door with his whole weight, only the yellow bow wrapping his fist prevented him from running his own palm through―absolutely no other reason.

When his fifth claw snaps and bleeds, he throws his head back and _howls_ , full as never before of anger and frustration. His heart pounds, the very air of the tower presses down on him on all sides, and the once comforting noise of the downpour grating in his ears as nails on a blackboard―as the silence hangs, raw and drab and deafening―until he can't bear it anymore.

In his haste to get up and flee the very place he just conquered, Wormwood knocks his perch down. It falls and rolls and the noise, fracturing the silence like thunder, seems to peal on his nerves until he hurls the clippers aside and and propels himself out of the room, an awful tremble in his whole body.

He breathes in the foyer, locking the door with feverish haste and pocketing the key. For a stupid second he puts his hands onto the wet sill of the window, as if he could fly out. He swears under his breath, dashing down the stairs until the castle's daedalus of hallways opens before him.

He has never used Transport magic on his own, but he needs to go _somewhere_... somewhere else, somewhere old, somewhere new, anywhere. He pulls out the Wand, waves it in a broad whiplash towards the ground, and thinks intensely of the woods―where the reminders of what he did won't surround him, and the quiet won't be as stifling. In a cloud of green smoke, he feels his body stretch and disappear.

Wormwood knocks back into existence somewhere green and surrounded by thicket and tall trees. His heart is pounding in his ears, so loud, drowning out the sound of his panicked breathing as he stumbles into the weight of his body.

It's nightfall, he slowly takes in, and it's not raining.

“How... how far did I go...?” he asks out loud, but the forest only rustles, leaves shivering in the breeze. For all he looks around, he cannot tell where he landed: he's not on a path, and the trees around him are too thick to see where the castle might be. From this earth-bound standpoint, the forest looks completely different. He can't Transport back if he doesn't know where he is.

Wormwood, flighted and perfectly able to orient himself up until this very afternoon, has never been _lost_ before. He moves a few hesitant steps in the murky under-bush, sharp and scratchy against his legs and the soles of his feet, looking for some sign that may guide him. His throbbing nails, untended, pearl the green ginger shrubs in red droplets.

He wonders if somehow he Transported north... all the way to the forest he was born in. For all he tries to force his memory back, he can remember nothing but the hollow tree Cedric found him in. He wonders if his parents still have a nest there, in that forest near the northern sea, so close to the cliffs of the coast. Maybe they are still raising his siblings, year after year, strong fledgelings that fly off and never look back―and they forgot all about their lost son. What would they think of him, if they knew he has a Royal Palace in his turf? Would they understand? Would they be proud?

“They would be dead,” he reminds himself.

Ravens who live in the wild... they have probably been gone for years now. Wormwood knocks his shoulder into a tree, letting himself stand there for a moment, eyes closed. A light is filtering under his eyelids. When he opens his eyes, in the surrounding darkness there is an eerie glow, that he can never see clearly. Foxfire.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks to no one. His feet, shuffling through twisted roots and fallen leaves, take him towards the small lights, until he finds a river, slithering quietly in the night like a great shining serpent. He knows that, if he wants to find humans again, he just needs to follow downstream.

He looks down at his dripping hand, wondering if he'll end up bleeding out from it. He bends to wash it in the river, cold water stinging in his open claws, running an itch up into his teeth. He steps down in the river to find relief for his chafed feet, and before he knows it, in the steady nudge of the current, he's wading in the water. The rainclouds must be following him, because a few drops start falling, hammering the surface.

The hem of his robe, soaked, grows heavy, and clings to his body like tar. He can see small silver fish dart around the black columns of his legs, around his submerged hand. Could he catch one, if he wanted? The river flows against his thighs, the current mild but persistent, pushing him downstream. He can hold upright on the river stones, rounded by the currents, only digging his talons in the slimy water-moss. Will he bleed out in this river, or can he survive in this form? Can he swim? He wades deeper and deeper, following the foxfire on the other side.

The forest was never this dark and unknown in his memories―opening to a meander of gloomy mangroves dipping their finger-like roots into the water, the smell of something rotten wafting into his nostrils, frogs loud and then eerily quiet. Blocking his watery path when he looks down, a drowned deer, half-submerged, backbone picked clean and antlers caught in the roots that hold the riverbank together. He doesn't flinch away from carrion, even though the smell is so different from what his memory tells him. Looking into the milky submerged eyes, he thinks he must still be dreaming.

When he lifts his eyes from his contemplation, another pair of eyes meets his. He leaps out of his skin.

“Is it you, then, bleeding in the water?” asks the red fox, smiling with his mouth full of teeth. Wormwood, startled, clenches his. “Come out of there, human. You don't wanna attract the pikes, do you?”

“Do not mistake me for a human,” Wormwood snaps, lifting what is left of his black claws. His voice sounds rough, as if he hasn't used it in two months rather than two hours. “I come from the Palace, but human I am not.”

The fox doesn't ask what Palace is he talking about, nor asks him what he is. He just blinks slowly, the brightness of his eyes dimming the eerie fires on the other side.

“The current lulls you in and then drags you down.” The fox pats the deer's white bones. “And you end up like our friend here. Water fouled the flesh, and the flesh fouled the water. What a waste.”

“Not to the crows,” Wormwood challenges. “We eat what we want, and foul meat doesn't scare us.”

“Even the other crows haven't dared,” the fox grins. The other crows? “All castle pets are the same. No fresh idea how to survive out here anymore. Just like my old friend Clover. Word of advice, mate: if you don't go back to your stone burrow, the forest will take you, and never give you back.”

“I have nowhere to return,” Wormwood says quietly. Blinking, his head spinning a bit, he reaches the bank and climbs out of the river. He derails, “You're friends with the furball, I take?”

“You know him?” the fox asks, raising his brow in mild surprise. “How is he?”

“Heavy,” Wormwood answers, without hesitation. The fox gives an odd yappy bark of a laugh, and slaps the ground with his paw.

“Same old Clover,” he chuckles. “I like your style, flesh-crow. No wonder you're Clover's friend.”

“We are not _friends_. How could we?” He blinks. “How can _you_? Doesn't he know you kill and eat his kind?”

“Of course he knows. Nature is nature, my friend,” the fox says, with an irksome air of wisdom. “He also knows I mean no disrespect: were I starving, I'd rather choke on this rotten deer than lay a paw on a friend.”

Wormwood wonders what brought the fox on his path, to tell him how friends are supposed to treat each other. It sounds like some twisted joke. He looks down at the chopped nails of his hand, finally done bleeding, the memory of what they have done sculpted in his mind. Something twitches in his chest, in the empty space left by the anger that burned so bright and blinding inside him. It smells like the regret he used to feel for all that he didn't have the time to do, when his life was at the end of its tether. Maybe it's what they call _guilt_.

While it's still drizzling, a dense white mist approaches, blurring the shadowed banks of the river. The fox lifts his paw off the ground, attempting to avoid it.

“If you are a raven, and you come from the Palace, you must be Wormwood,” he says. The raven nods, impressed and almost flattered. The fox points to the fog that surrounded them in a matter of minutes. “You know anything about this? It started coming last night from the island your Palace is. It all got chilly, and the trees are shedding, like we were already in Winter.”

“I know nothing of this,” Wormwood says, maybe a bit defensively, an unpleasant chill running down his spine.

The fox paws the ground again, head tilted to listen to the night air, as if it were bringing him news from far away. “I'd better go check if my little birds know something, then. What are you gonna do?”

“I... do not know,” he admits. “Not anymore.”

“Then listen, I'll tell you: whatever you do, get that magic man of yours to do something about this, will ya? 'Cause something doesn't feel right here.”

At the mention of Cedric, something sharp tears through him. When he can breathe again, the red fox has disappeared.

“The magic man of mine isn't going to listen to me for a long time, red fox,” he says to the empty forest.

The thick mist has descended, painting the riverside a milky grey. In the blueish light of eventide, the foxfire looks like alligator's eyes, third eyelids shining red into the water. Wormwood steps back on the bank and starts walking, following the current, away from the meander.

The fox is right, his instincts tell him, this form isn't made to survive out here. Adrenaline pushes him to follow the river, his only path in the fog and the unknown, for a long time. Probably most of the night, judging by the moon's dance when the clouds part enough that he can see it.

In his hands he clutches his spoils of war. The Wand, and the yellow ribbon. The first he brandishes at least a dozen times against imaginary threats when, heart hammering in his chest, he's startled by the shadow of fangs in tree bark, a rock with owl's horns, the shriek of a hawk in the distance. The second, he cannot recall if he just kept like this or pulled it from the folds of his robe, but it stays wrapped around his fist like a bandage, keeping him safe from the convulse clench of his own claws.

When finally fatigue wins over the fear, he finds shelter under a fallen tree. He shakes in his wet robes, and he is a flightless nestling all over again, unprepared for the harshness of the forest, and it counts nothing how much he grew overnight. No child's hands will come to save him, gather him whole in the sleeves of his robe, in his hands that can be so gentle, so precise. Not this time―or ever again.

Cedric would sing, if he were him, to keep himself strong. But Wormwood is no songbird, and in his throat there is no song―only a single, muffled whimper.

“ _Cedric_ ,” he lets himself keen, alone and unseen, the ribbon bunched in his hands, pressed to his eyes and nose―as if the sorcerer could hear him, as if he'd still come to his call of distress. After all that happened. After all he has _done_.

Exhausted, he lets his forehead thud against his bent knees. He waits for the forest to take him, and never give him back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is miserable, news at 9. Guest star, Whiskers the Fox.


	6. Flower Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which no one gets away with being a lousy friend on Sofia's watch.

Inhaling the crisp morning air, Wormwood feels a sudden shiver creep up his spine.

He frowns at the sensation, puzzled. After the night he had, it's incredible that something can still make him shiver. The subtle change, more of a shift of air currents than an actual smell, resembles his avian sense of oncoming storms―he can feel it approach from half a mile across the castle, ready to collide with him as soon as he puts his blistered foot down on the first step.

If it's a storm, it's a very small one.

“You!” Sofia jabs at him with a finger, as thin as a needle into his ribs, putting her whole weight into it. It actually hurts, a little bit. “I'm hearing you've been a _very bad friend_.”

Taken aback for a moment, he wonders if the Amulet has granted the Princess some preternatural sight overnight.

“My, do news travel fast in this castle,” he says, shoving the sudden paranoia aside, in the most sardonic tone he can muster. In the first light of dawn, he was able to find his way back―but it still took him longer than his patience. His legs, now used to walking, feel at once stronger and heavy as lead. He fights back a yawn. “Let me guess who told you, a little birdie?”

“Nevermind that, Wormwood,” the Princess hisses, eyes narrowed to darting blue slits. “I won't blow your cover only because Mr. Cedric asked me not to. But I wanna know _why_ you were so mean to him.”

“Mean? Me? I don't know whatever you're talking about,” he drawls, opening his fingers and letting his voice drip with mockery. Sofia squints at him. “You look like a little snake with your face like that. We should have left you a lizard.”

What reason would Cedric have to keep Wormwood's identity a secret, he wonders.

“Mr. Cedric,” Sofia continues, completely ignoring him, “was out without a coat last night. In the pouring rain.” Her voice lowers, “Yesterday, his voice was already all hoarse. If tomorrow he's sick, it will be all your fault. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Wormwood blinks at her. The night past and gone, what happened doesn't feel as much of a big deal. An argument between them was one-sided the other way around for once, what is all this fuss about? As he walked back to the castle, the thought barely crossed his mind. But now, Sofia slapping him with the reminder of his words and actions, he feels that unpleasant tension in his stomach all over again.

When he woke up, he glanced above the trees, to the sky painted orange and violet, to the oblique light cutting through the sparse leaves like a thin pink blade. He was half-lain on the roots of the tree, and the fleeting memory of a dream escaped him the more he tried to recall it, like fish between his fingers―there was a throne, and a rising tide, and a mournful voice saying, _you have abandoned me_. The night had passed, he was covered in dirt and fallen leaves, spiders had made webs in his robe. His eyes had a hard time coming fully open, as if something had dried on his eyelids.

He never had such a morning before. In a memory of lifelong habits, it all came back to him, all that was missing and would never be his again. Opening his eyes to the bed unmade, still warm, light of dawn and slight draught through heavy curtains. Then, the smell of breakfast in the making, and falsetto humming making its way to him through the open door, pulling him from his dreams.

“Listen, Princess,” he says, clearing the slight thickness from his throat. “It's his own fault. You weren't there, you didn't see what went on.”

“I've seen enough,” Sofia replies, crossing her arms. “I know you've taken his Wand, given him those scratches, and locked him out of the tower. That's _mean_.”

“And just when I thought he couldn't sink any lower,” he sneers, though it sounds hollow, a bark with no bite behind it. “He sends the five year old human to champion for him? Incredible.”

“I'm _nine_ , Wormwood.” Sofia's hands move to the sides of her wide skirt, and she looks him straight in the eye. “And no one _sent_ me. I might be a human, but at least I take good care of my friends.”

He exhales from his nose, in a tense sneer. Who is sending him all these people who have so much to say about what friends do and don't do? What do they know about what happened? It never gave him this feeling, this tense discomfort, when Sofia said she and Cedric were friends before, but now... it seems Wormwood has been replaced, almost as easily as he made Cedric believe _he_ was.

Should have seen it coming, with all this... teaming up and adventuring going on, he thinks. At risk of looking like he's forfeiting the confrontation, he sweeps his long robe around and stalks off, down the front stairs again.

It's a relief to put his feet in the damp grass. It's not a relief to hear Sofia's small steps patter behind him.

“Wait, what is the _problem_ with you two?” she queries in her high-pitched, grating voice. She's following him, the pesky brat. “Will one of you just tell me, so we can fix it?”

“It's not something that can be _fixed_ ,” he spits. He turns away, arms crossed, when she steps around him to look him in the face. “And I'm not talking about it with _you_.”

“Why not?” Sofia pursues, unbothered by either his tone or attitude. “I'm the only one who knows about this, and the only human you've talked to before you got transformed.”

“I do not _care_ ,” he groans, lifting both his hands. “You do not care either. Nobody cares. Stop following me.”

“I do care,” she rebuts. She is eyeing his hand, and Wormwood realises with horror that the yellow ribbon is still wrapped around his fist. He shoves it in his sleeve, but it's too late. Sofia has seen it. “And you also do. You look like you haven't got any sleep, and you made a face when I said Mr. Cedric could get sick. You _are_ sorry. You feel bad that you've hurt your very best friend in the whole world.”

 _My very best friend_ , his mind echoes. He curses all the treacherous facial muscles he can't control well enough, he curses the painful wrench in his middle, and the haunting memories of easy, slow mornings. If a child can read him, he must be showing a lot more than he hoped― _hurt him―_ or she's bluffing. She must be bluffing.

“Not at all,” he evades, taking extra care in keeping his voice even and neutral. _Your move, snakeling_. They spend a moment squinting at each other, like shortsighted scholars trying to decipher some archaic footnotes. Then, Sofia inhales threateningly.

“Well, it seems that _none_ of us got any sleep last night,” she says, in a voice excessively low and insinuating―tell of the novice manipulator, “since you made poor Mr. Cedric so upset, he cried _all night_.”

Wormwood knows he has no reason to believe her. There is no advantage to revealing this information to him, beside a fruitless reach for his heartstrings. There is no reason at all for it to be the truth. And yet.

“And what do you expect, telling me this?” he retorts, too weakly and too late. He resumes walking, speeding up the pace of his long steps, circling around the castle. “Make me repent, or something?”

“The _whole_ night,” Sofia hisses, almost running to keep up. “Not even my special blankie could cheer him up. You broke his _heart_.”

The picture has slammed into his head and lodged itself there, and there's no getting it out now. He made Cedric _cry_ , he realizes, guts twisting―shouldn't it bring him satisfaction? Shouldn't he feel powerful, now that his actions have influenced the mood of a whole night? He wants to laugh at the idea of Cedric weeping into Sofia's special blankie, he wants to laugh at it until it's so covered in derision it won't make his chest tighten anymore.

He manages to arrange some sort of smile on his face, and it must be the least convincing smile ever produced by a human face, because Sofia's stern expression actually softens.

“There is the face.” Sofia points in quite the churlish manner, catching up with him.

“What face?” he insists, though he himself can't see the point anymore. “There is no face. It's my face. The face I have now. Wormwood's face.”

“There is nothing wrong in admitting you still care, you know,” she continues. “Even if now you're angry.”

Wormwood stares down at her. Why won't this child relent? Has she just no sense of danger, no survival instinct? He always thought Sofia was sort of―dense, in a way. Every time Cedric had tried to trick her, no matter how obvious it was, she had never caught on. She always believed in his good faith, no matter how clearly his bad intentions were written all over his face and the slips of his tongue. It could be interesting, this blind spot of hers... but for now, it's only a nuisance.

Or maybe, something in him suggests, it's not Sofia who has a blind spot, but Wormwood himself who sees too much. After all their years together, he got used to every shape Cedric's expressive face can twist into. The guilty tilt of his eyebrows, and the shift in his eyes when he's lying; from his frowns, that always border on the pouting side, to the odd derailed cackle that he loves to call _evil_. And then those strange, soft smiles that he gets on his face sometimes, that make him look so serene and childlike.

He's seen him cry as well, of course, though only when no one else was around. Wormwood had always found it an odd reaction, eyes that leak without injury or infection―some form of weakness, maybe a passing ailment he didn't want the other humans to see. It gave Wormwood a strange sense of pride, being the sole custodian of that weakness.

He tries to think if _he_ ever caused that reaction before, but nothing direct comes to mind―except maybe...

Decades ago, young and full of mischief and blatantly ignoring Goodwyn's ban on building enchanted contraptions, Cedric had gone out to test one of his first flying machines. Wormwood, so concerned with the spell failing and having to witness Cedric plummet to his death, wasn't paying attention to his own trajectory―and steered straight into the wheel of a carriage.

Cedric had to run straight to his father―Wormwood remembers his hands, shaking so hard under his mangled wings―and while Wormwood was being put back together―that, he fortunately doesn't remember―he had just endured the scolding, silent tears running down his face. _All because I got hurt_. The same man who now attempted experimental spells on him day in and day out.

“ _Angry―_ what am I, some fickle mutt?” he argues. It sounds too much like justification, but he can't really stop himself, “Just―you've seen just last week, how he was chasing me down through the castle, trying to duplicate me! I had no other way to make myself be heard.”

“Wormwood, I talk to _animals_.” Sofia gestures at her Amulet, like it should have been obvious. “You and I might not be the best of friends, but I would have helped you explain yourself! You aren't on your own, you know.”

He glances at Sofia with distrust. The Princess is disarmingly naive―taking advantage of her should be as easy as impressing the King with magic tricks. And yet, if he pieces together past happenings... Sofia has already outsmarted him, at least twice. And she defeated a powerful fairy, much older and experienced than she is. One time, it can be luck. Four times... hardly. Furthermore, for a thing so young, her powers of diplomacy and conciliation are nothing short of fearsome. There is no other conclusion: underestimating Sofia up to this point, Wormwood has miscalculated by a landslide. _And they say ravens are smart._

Still―he considers while noticing she is, in fact, capable of silence, simply trailing next to him through the gardens―he likes her more than Princess Amber. At least Sofia never hit him in the face with a broom. Maybe he can tell her, maybe she'll understand.

“He wouldn't have listened. I've been making myself clear for years, even without words. I... thought I knew him,” he ends up saying, sullen. He slows down, almost involuntarily. The Princess simply falls into step with him, short legs trotting alongside his longer, sweeping steps. “But not as well as I thought, I suppose.”

“He said the same,” Sofia half-smiles. Then, she perks up, “I have an idea! Why don't you bring him roses? Roses are a nice start when one is apologising.”

“Not all of them are nice,” he sneers, glad to switch topics. “Did you learn nothing from your encounter with the trickster fairy and her overgrown weed of a companion?”

“You mean Miss Nettle?” Sofia gives a small shrug. “One bad rose won't make me hate roses.”

“Unwise,” he chides, but the child just giggles. “And, actually, who said I have any intention of apologising?”

Bickering so, they have reached the rose garden. The closer they get to the back gardens, the more the grass crunches under their feet. Wormwood stops in his tracks, realizing where he's going―gravitating towards the Well without noticing. He can't risk the Princess recognising the place, she'd be onto him immediately.

“They're not holding up so well, are they?” he notes, glancing up as Sofia, a bit ahead, circles a lilac rose with a small frown on her face. At some point, barely noticing, he's taken to following Sofia's steps in the garden instead of the other way around.

“Yeah, Dad's a bit worried about it,” Sofia says. “He says it's all this rain... but that can't be right, can it? Why would they be dry, if they were getting too much water?”

“How would _I_ know?” In his mind's eye, he sees the Well's clearing, the lush green grass turned dry and brownish as in the throes of summer heat. Wormwood looks around for a healthy rose, and spots a bush that looks freshly planted, soil glossy with fertiliser. “This one seems fine.”

“Oh, the new Sunflower Rose!” Sofia claps in delight. “It's still green, I'm so glad.”

“Does it... turn to follow the sun or something?” Wormwood inquires, unable to hold back on his curiosity.

“Oh, probably not.” Sofia points at the young blossoms still wrapped tight, all green around the base. The petals are so dark and dull they look brownish, and are striped in white. “I think it's a type of Jocelyn, and the stripes make it look just like a sunflower seed! And it smells really nice, kinda like Hallow's Eve cookies.”

Wormwood leans in to look. He actually knows this plant, he's seen it in Cedric's herbarium.

“Is that what you call a _Helianthus_?” he says with disdain. If this is the plant he's thinking of, it actually has remarkable magical properties. It must be the reason it's holding out... and also probably all that would make it valuable in Cedric's eyes. “Well, I suppose I could bring back some of these, if I ever wanted to... try and make amends.”

“It would go _so_ well with your pretty Begonias,” Sofia says, clasping hands. “I'm sure he'll love them.”

Wormwood won't waste his time explaining that those Begonias aren't there for decoration―are they?―but to be used in their potions and experiments. He doesn't even know if Cedric actually _likes_ flowers.

“As long as it's not dandelions, I guess...” he mutters and shrugs, making the Princess giggle. His eyes slide on the soft brown of young rosewood, on the dark blossoms striped in white. He has never seen a human with hair like Cedric's, striped in white since childhood. The slim branches are still damp from the rain, dappled in moisture, soft thorns spiked like wet eyelashes. _Drat_.

“I was... I guess one could say, from a human standpoint, I was kind of―well, yes, mean,” he hears himself say, in a tentative series of false starts. “I knew the things I said would―I _wanted_ him to be upset.”

Sofia emits a hum of sympathy, spreading her arms wide. “Alright, but why? All because of the experiments?”

He gives a glance at his own hands, the broken nails of his right that don't bleed or hurt anymore, but still remind him of a night that would be better off forgotten.

“Hm, I was also tired of some―situations we have going on,” he evades. “He's not exactly the kind to learn his lessons the mellow way.”

Sofia rubs her chin. “You know,” she starts, “this actually proves you two are best friends. Only people that are very close know exactly what to say to make the other upset.”

“So, I'm not wrong?” Wormwood gives her a most perplexed head-tilt. This counteracts a lot of what he's been told, and a lot of what he has read. “Is this what you call friendship, human? Collecting weak spots and then striking them through?”

“No, no, you are totally in the wrong and should apologise,” Sofia says, gathering up her skirts to crouch by the rose's boles, trying to snake her arm through and reach the other side. “I just mean... you've been Mr. Cedric's confidant for a long time, and you know things he wouldn't entrust anyone else with. So, _knowing_ where weak spots are and _not_ striking them, but wanting to protect them instead: that's what I'd call friendship.”

While the Princess spoke, Wormwood's insides have grown laden. He watches her reach a pair of shears, abandoned behind the rosebush, and manoeuvre them carefully to cut a few long stalks. She hands the blooms to him one by one. The thorns, though new and soft, still prick his hands.

“This is a waste of time, Princess,” he croaks. The roses seem to wilt a bit just by him looking at them, holding them in the rough hands that have struck, instead of protecting. “Even if I apologise... it's all ruined now. I've destroyed it. I've never seen him forgive _anyone_ in all the years I've known him.”

The Princess hums pensively. “My mom always says that _forgiveness is not something you do, but something you feel_. You can't force it, you have to be patient! And even if he doesn't forgive you, you still tried to make things right.”

“You are better at this than me, snakeling,” he hears himself say, between bitter and forlorn. “I shouldn't be surprised that he came to you, after all... you wouldn't say the things I've said, or take away his most cherished possession―I should have expected that, sooner or later, I would be replaced with a human.” He glances down at himself. “A... real one.”

Slowly, Sofia blinks up at him. She looks bewildered, at the nickname or at the raw confession he just spilled on her.

“This has nothing to do with being a human,” she spells out for him, slowly. “You just need to use your words, tell him how you feel and be honest... and what do you mean _replaced_? Wormwood... you do know we _both_ can be Mr. Cedric's friend, right?”

“Don't be absurd, child,” Wormwood scoffs, clicking his tongue in pique. “If a friend is _yours_ , how could he be someone else's?”

“Oh gosh.” For a moment, Sofia looks around as if looking for aid. “Wormwood, a friend isn't something you... use up until there's no more! You enjoy a friend's company, laugh with them and stay by their side when they're feeling down, and they do the same for you. It fills back, or...” she glances at the rose, searching for the right word, “regrows? Like―”

“Like a weed?” a muffled voice butts in from behind the rosebush.

“Replenish. The word you want is _replenish_.” Wormwood straightens his back, glaring down at the grey rabbit when he comes into view. “Dropping eaves, _furball_? The fairy sure hasn't made _you_ hate roses.”

While Sofia chuckles and picks him up, Clover swallows a mouthful of leaves and vines. “Yo, Wormwood,” he grins. “How come you grew twelve feet overnight? Got sprinkled with some crazy magic stuff?”

“And yet, I still cannot escape your ewer mouth.” Unexpectedly, the rabbit cackles.

“Okay, here's the plan,” Sofia says, after a thinking pause. “While it's still early, we go and set the workshop back into shape. And then, as soon as you see Mr. Cedric, you give him back his keys and his Wand. And his robe.”

“And, most importantly, say that you're really sorry, and mean it,” Clover chimes in. Then he blinks. “Hang on, Sof, what did I miss? Why are we helping crankbird here?”

“Because they're both miserable, and I don't like seeing best friends fight each other,” Sofia explains as they walk back into the ramparts, towards the backdoor of the tower, rabbit hopping alongside their differently paced human steps.

“I'm not _miserable_ ,” Wormwood objects, looking from rabbit to Princess. They both just blink at him, their expressions identical. “And what do you mean, _we_? I can do it on my own.”

“You? Clean up?” Clover laughs, slapping his knee. “Hah, trust the pro here, it ain't so easy.”

Vexed, Wormwood pulls the backdoor open with a bit more force than intended.

“But do I really have to _say_ it?” he insists. “Isn't fixing the workshop going to be enough?”

“A wise Princess once taught me, _actions speak louder than words_ ,” Sofia explains. “But words are also important. Since you've been really mean, I think you should go out of your way with your apology, you know? And really _use all your might_.”

“But I don't want to _say_ it,” Wormwood whines, eyes trained to the endless stairs they're climbing. “Why is it necessary? How can humans have so many useless rules, and still be so complicated?”

“We aren't that complicated, really,” Sofia shrugs. “In fact, in a pinch, you can still _sing_ to him!”

Wormwood balks, almost tripping on his robe. “I can still _what?_ ”

“It might work! We can totally teach you our _Best Friend_ song! Clover and I wrote it together, that time he ran away. Well, we wrote it down after we got him back, of course.”

Still reeling, Wormwood barely hears what she's saying. Singing something the damn _furball_ wrote. Singing to _Cedric_.

“Never,” he states. “Not in a hundred years. Not on my deathbed.”

“Aw, come on,” Clover coaxes. “Say another raven steals your worm, don't you sing to the guy to settle the matter?”

“Sure,” Wormwood sneers, “I'd sing his _coronach_ to him.”

The joke, though, falls a bit flat on this audience. _Ugh_ , he thinks with a stab of longing, _Cedric would get it._

“You don't... have any other friends, do you?” Sofia asks delicately, after a while. He just gives a shrug. She adds, “Why?”

“We ravens are rather... the solitary type, so to speak,” he says, a bit through his teeth. “If we find someone we get along with, we pair up and stick with them, and not need anyone else. We'll fight for territory more than befriend each other.”

“Cough― _roosting_ ―cough,” Clover butts in. Wormwood glares down at him once again.

“That is a _safety measure_. It has nothing to do with friendship, or with this conversation,” he says, sullen. “And I, personally, haven't done it in a long time or felt the need to, for the matter.”

“Sure thing, bro.”

Sofia, holding her gown up with a hand and rubbing her chin with the other, emits a pensive hum. “Why are you friends with a human like Mr. Cedric, then? What makes you stick with him?”

They got to the workshop's door, the stairs are over and can't buffer him anymore, and he has no idea how to answer that.

There are answers that smell like the sea, and delicate nails on the itch of his first moult, keen eyes never tired of studying and learning. Answers that smell like change, a youth growing into his gangly limbs, and new plumage stretching smooth into the light of morning. There are answers that smell like the yellow bow he clutched in his hands, in his moment of weakness, herbs and book-dust―a body that grew angular, weighting so much and so little. Eyes of brown, keen rosewood. There are way too many answers, and none that he could give to a child whose entire life amounts to a third of the time he and Cedric have spent together.

“He is―such a _berk_ ,” he ends up starting, once again pulling the key from his sleeve.

Sofia gives a small, dainty snort, but sobers up immediately. “That's not very nice.”

“But kinda accurate,” Clover notes.

“I mean,” Wormwood continues, glowering. “He has all these... projects and plans and dreams. And he spends so much time building them up... and when it's time for action, he trips and everything crashes down, and he is the most sore loser I've ever dealt with. And I want him to succeed, I want him to _win_. I―” _I want him to be happy_. He halts, and clears his throat, wishing that hateful soft lilt out of his voice. _Disgusting_. He pushes the door open, letting the three of them into the empty workshop.

Sofia is smiling a little bit, as if she heard his unspoken shame. But the smile falls from her face as soon as she sees the place.

“Uhh, it looks like a hurricane went through here,” she whispers. “Did _you_ do this?”

“Yes, I... do that,” he admits. In the crisp, overcast light of morning, with Cedric locked out for the night and unable to run the usual repairs, Wormwood truly sees what his destruction amounts to for the first time. Ink and broken glass litter the floor, books scattered all around, ingredients gone to waste. “I was―cross.”

“Is this why last year Mr. Cedric needed me to help him clean up?” she says forcefully. “Wormwood, this is awful. Friends don't do this.”

“You guys are so weird,” the rabbit chimes in. “If you hate it here, so much you pull stuff like this, why do you stay? Can't you like, migrate?”

“I _could_ , if I wanted,” he bristles. “And I didn't do _all_ of this. He's messy enough on his own. We just had a misunderstanding.”

“Dude, you threw the guy out. You know how humans get all sneezy and sniffly when you leave them out in the cold, they got no fur! Not cool, man.”

“My, I must be going deaf, because I didn't hear anyone ask for _your_ opinion.”

Walking through them as they keep arguing, Sofia takes the roses and finds a pitcher with a bit of water in it. Her gestures and glances have something accusatory to them.

“You do not understand,” Wormwood finally bristles, leaning down to set his perch upright in a forceful snap. “We grew up together. We used to have... impeccable understanding, back when it was only the two of us. And... when he couldn't hear me.”

“But why would it change things, hearing you?” Sofia asks. “Shouldn't it make it even better?”

“Evidently not. He... must see me differently now.” He forces his hands, balled into fists on their own accord, to unclench. _He's never seen me as an equal... just something like a servant, a mere minion_ _. Nothing more than a pet_. He pulls the Wand out, and busies himself with the only repairing spell he recalls, practicing on a smashed beaker. “He didn't want to talk with me at all. I guess he only liked listening to his own voice.”

Repair spell are not as easy as they look. He has to try two or three times before he gets it right. Cedric made it look so easy, never complaining about it, just some normal inconvenience to get over with. Deep in his chest, something goes tight.

“I'm sure it's not true, Wormwood,” Sofia says, too gently for him to bear. He trains his eyes to the broom, as she sweeps together all the glass of the same colour in little piles for him to restore. “Mrs. Winifred said I'm Mr. Cedric's only friend. She must have meant the only human friend... so it looks like you're all he's got, too.”

Wormwood can't bring himself to reply. Working in silence, they finish the bulk of it, giving the lair its busy charm back. He has to admit it, but the furball _is_ a professional at this. Taken by a competitive urge to do _more_ , he recalls Cedric has wanted to alphabetise his ingredients for ages now, and never got around to it.

“The spell should be in _Intermediate Utility Charms, Volume III._ Last time I saw it, it was on the upper shelf,” Wormwood instructs Sofia, who is helping him sort through the piles of books scattered at the foot of the shelving. “If you find it, give it here.”

“How do y'all ever find anything?” Clover muses out loud, glancing up at the endless rows of books spiralling up to the ceiling.

“Good memory. Occasionally, the crystal ball.” He shrugs. “I don't know what they have against indexes in that family. Cedric's probably the third generation that will postpone making one until it's time to retire.”

Sofia taps her fist on her open palm. “Here's an idea! You could make the index, Wormwood!” Then she, too, looks up. “Well, at least start it.”

“Indeed,” he scoffs, glancing down at his hands. “If I could write.”

The previous evening, when he had trouble feeding himself, made him rethink this whole human form business for a moment. The more he inhabits this flightless hybrid form, half human and half threatening nonsense, he gets the feeling of being stuck between the two, with no real advantage from either side. He draws in a sigh.

“Oh, it's not that hard, I can teach you!” Sofia springs up immediately, spying his fell face. “Let's start with this bookcase. Maybe we'll find the Alphabetising spell in the meantime.”

As they sit on the floor side by side to begin their task, Wormwood squints at the Princess. She found some parchment rolls and one of Cedric's quills, and is laboriously tracing a grid.

“What is your endgame, snakeling?” he ends up asking, so direct he startles her a bit. “Why are you helping me, what do you get out of this?”

“I'm just nice, I like doing good deeds,” Sofia says, almost defensively. “And mostly, I like helping my friends.”

He got upgraded to _friend_ so easily, it's sort of offensive. _Friends_ , that's what the two of them are, according to her. And this measly, one-sided conviction is enough for her to spend her whole morning helping him out. He's more used to deals, or the exchange of favours, and all of this is so alien to him he doesn't quite know what to make of it.

“So, you have more than one friend,” he starts. Sofia hands him the papers, and supervises as he traces his first, wobbly letters from the titles. “And you have no qualms adding more.”

“Yep, no friend limit,” she chuckles. When she sees him confident enough in his copying, she gets up to restock the shelves that she can reach. “And my mom says we are _too small to be the world to someone..._ or something. For me... there are so many people and animals that I like, it would be impossible to have only one friend! How could I begin to choose between my two best friends, or between them and Clover?"

“Keep the one you like best, I suppose?” he attempts. Clover, who is dusting off the distillation unit on the desk, gives a snort.

“But I like all of them, and they're all important to me. I've known Ruby and Jade since _forever_ , and Clover was the first that made me feel at home here at the castle. When I'm with them, I always feel stronger, like I can handle anything that comes my way!”

Wormwood writes in silence, mulling over Sofia's words, until the whole bookcase is back in shape.

Maybe it's this multiplicity that allows the child to go days without seeing the other humans? But the mere thought of _sharing_ Cedric... it gives him the same clench of anger turf invasion does. The Alphabetising spell finally found, he taps the list of titles and watches the lines on the page re-arrange themselves in order. Pity he can't do anything about his penmanship, he thinks with displeasure.

That done, he goes to pick up the purple robe―still there where they left it, crumpled on the reading stool―and rummages the pockets for the escritoire keys.

The fabric bunches so easily in his hands. It's not warm anymore, but the feeling of it is just the same as when his sensitive fingers were scaly talons, as he perched on the sorcerer's shoulder. The robe smells the same as the bow, soap and dust and candle-wax. He forces himself to put it down, his grip on the key unsteady as he opens the escritoire and starts spelling the ingredients in order, as if tidying up could placate the roil in his mind. It doesn't work.

“I am... not enough, then,” he says slowly, bracing on the wooden frame as the realization collapses on his shoulders. The jars and little vials in front of him become blurry for a moment, until he blinks. “If I'm all he's got, I... I have never been enough.”

“Sheesh, birdbrain, you got it bad,” the rabbit whispers derisively, before Sofia can speak. “It almost sounds like you're in l―”

“Enough.” Fed up, Wormwood turns to him. “Sofia goes many days without seeing her human friends, _Clover_. Why don't you tell her how many days _you_ can go without seeing _her_?”

“Hey, now, don't out a bunny like that,” the rabbit protests. “I can go a whole of twelve hours, alright?”

“Clover, what does he mean?” At Sofia's inquisitive tone, the rabbit heaves a deep sigh.

“Yeah, Sof, hate to admit it but... he's kinda right. Domestication _can_ mess you up.” He makes a circling motion with his paw next to his ear. “Once you get attached to a human... you kinda need them afterwards. All the time. It's nice, but not always.”

“Oh,” Sofia says, her eyes a bit wide.

Wormwood feels spikes of anger flare inside him once more. Hearing it being called _domestication_ is like a stab straight through his stomach, where the awful clench of longing has been sitting from the moment the backdoor slammed shut before him.

“Do you think the loyalty of a _raven_ is anything like your dogged dependence, you dim colony critter?” he barks at the rabbit, his hand swatting the air. “A _pair_ is a bond between equals, an unshakeable union, divided only by death.”

“Psh, some bond you got there, you _creep_ ,” Clover says, unexpectedly sharp. He taps his furry foot down on the desk, where Wormwood's claws have left markings in the wood. “At least _I_ don't trash Sofia's room when she's away. And I wouldn't even _think_ of laying a paw on her.”

“Hm, did your fox friend teach you that, I wonder?” Wormwood sneers. “Before or after slaughtering some other rabbit for lunch?”

“Now you listen, you―”

“Quit it, you two!” Sofia intervenes. “Clover, you're not helping. Wormwood, start making an effort to be nice, please?”

“I am not _nice_!” Wormwood finally shouts, exasperated, letting the escritoire's lid fall shut with a slam. The rabbit flinches, but the Princess stands tall, facing him. “Even if I cared to try, I cannot make an effort to be something that I'm not! I don't _care_ how humans do things, this is all completely pointless―I'll never be truly human, or equal―I'll never be _enough._ He'll never...”

His shout has trembled to a lament, so he elects to stop talking. Sofia scoots under his hunched form when he averts his eyes, keeps looking straight up at him, as dense and fearless as he's always known her to be. He's breathing shallowly, like his lungs couldn't fill all the way.

“It's okay,” Sofia says slowly, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “First of all, you know it's not true: I know plenty of nice things you've done in the past. Secondly, you just made an effort to control your temper right now. It means you _can_ do it.”

“Yeah, but who says he'll be able to keep it up?” the rabbit says, still on the far edge of the desk. “He just said basic decency goes against his flow! I'd say we ditch him, Princess, before he gets you into trouble.”

“I can hear you,” Wormwood says hollowly.

“I'm not gonna ditch you, Wormwood,” Sofia says, ignoring Clover's groan of exasperation. “I believe you can still be yourself, but still make exceptions at least for your best friend. If making things right is important to you, you can't give up like this when you've barely started! You have to try and go all the way.”

“I don't even know how,” he laments. “I don't _follow_.”

“Don't worry, it's easy: the same way you knew how to upset Mr. Cedric, you certainly know what to say and do to make him happy instead. Because you know him well, you know all his favourite things.”

 _Attention_ is the only thing that comes to mind. Adoration, awe, reverence... all in a very specific way, choral and grand and impersonal, nothing someone like Wormwood could provide. He's only one raven, not an army, or an entire adoring crowd.

“I'm all out of ideas,” he bemoans, turning away and mechanically opening the small drawers to set order to what's inside.

Even the Helianthus won't be enough, he just knows it... it is powerful, but not particularly rare, and pretty much only valuable when combined with―just then, he notices the green jar, that has been sitting empty for almost a month now.

Maybe, he thinks, after all there is a something that could win him Cedric's approval back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one gets Wormwood's crow memes, Sofia should look into a career as a marriage counsellor, and Clover has 0 chill.


	7. Dam in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good reflexes come in handy more than once.

_That's a great idea, Wormwood!_ Sofia had said, with a lot more enthusiasm than he expected. She dragged them to the kitchens first, to grab a satchel and some apples for their skipped breakfast.  _Let's go right now!_

_But I know the way,_ he had objected. _You don't have to come with me._

 _But can you ride a flying horse?_ Sofia retorted, almost rhetorically. He blinked at her: for a second, used to just flying to Mist Bowl Mountain on his own, he had forgotten he doesn't have wings anymore.

Come to think of it, Wormwood considers, legs clenched around the horse's round belly, light purple wings swatting his knees with each stroke, it might not have been such a great idea after all.

“This is an odd way of flying,” he notes, looking down, shifting his long ears around with a knuckle to get them to fit under the riding helmet. A pang of nostalgia for his wings hits him out of nowhere. _It's been less than 24 hours_ , he chides himself. _Get a grip_. “Never thought I would fly on borrowed wings.”

“Always a first time!” Sofia laughs. “How are you holding up, Minimus?”

Before they took off, Clover took her aside and whispered to her for a good five minutes. Warning her against Wormwood's wicked trickery, for sure, reminding her to be careful around him. Wormwood had seen her wave her hand, as if to swat the rabbit's worries away.

“Fine!” the small horse replies, sounding a bit winded. “Listen, not to be a drag pony, but tall dark and handsome here is kinda crushing my ribcage.”

“Relax, Wormwood,” Sofia says, and he attempts to unclench his knees. “Remember, never think about falling when you're flying.”

“Princess, are you trying to tell a _bird_ how to―”

“ _Wormwood_?” Minimus interjects. _Starting to feel famous here_ , Wormwood thinks, rolling his eyes. “Is this the guy who took your Amulet last Hallow's Eve, Sofia? The raven?”

“Ah, yes. A misunderstanding. We're friends now,” she says easily. “You and I are helping him get some _Hocus Crocus_ to win back his best friend's heart!”

“Oh, wow, are they fighting or something?”

 _Here we go,_ Wormwood thinks in dismay, as the Princess spiels to explain his business all over again. There is certainly an advantage to her many connections, and her enthusiasm sure makes him feel like this wacky plan actually has a chance, and yet...

He reaches into his breast pocket, where Cedric's robe sits folded up: the purple wand, still safe in the left sleeve, won't stop poking him in the ribs. Uncomfortable, he broods until Mist Bowl Mountain comes into view.

“Here we are,” Sofia says. “Without a carriage, I think we can land closer the top! Please make it as close as you can, Minimus.”

“Aye aye, Princess!”

They fly above the Crystal Forest, the Musical Mist Geysers, and other traps that sprout the way they do in all places where the soil is magically charged.

“Can we skip the ogre, too?” Wormwood asks.

“Sorry, too steep,” Minimus says apologetically. He lands heavily into the rocky clearing where the gatekeeper's lodge stands. Wormwood dismounts on shaky legs. “But Sofia's good at riddles, don't worry!”

Wormwood groans, “That riddle has been unchanged for _decades._ ”

He knows it by heart, and the answer makes his insides twist. _More valuable than gold, hard to find and easy to lose,_ he thinks. _Is it my dignity?_

Without letting the ogre start his presentation speech nor his riddle, he barks, “It's a friend _._ ”

And, out of the corner of his eye, he can see the cunning snakelet _smile_.

“Gosh, it really is too easy,” the ogre mutters, lifting the gate to let them pass. “Oh, hello again, little Princess!”

Wormwood glances back in disbelief, “What, are you friends with the damn ogre too?”

“Yep,” Sofia laughs, waving back. “He's nice.”

Wormwood elects to save his breath for the steep trek ahead. Minimus notes it's almost as foggy near the top as the stables behind the castle earlier that morning. When the clouds part, Sofia points out the view, and Wormwood feels again like the air currents are carrying him, soaring above all, the whole kingdom in the span of his vision. It might not have been a day yet, but he feels like he hasn't flown in years.

Out of nowhere, he regrets never having gone very far in his excursions. He saw so little of all that is there to see, too tired and rooted in habit to be curious anymore. And as a human, it's so much easier to leave the tower, it makes him almost forget what it used to feel like, the terrible dread that overcame him when the silence grew too heavy.

 _Well, if this doesn't work, I suppose it might just be the time to travel_ , he thinks. He'll have to do _something_ with his lengthened life, won't he? He takes a shuddering sigh in the thin mountain air. Suddenly, the thought is not as comforting as it should be.

Minimus, a horse of lesser concerns, also draws in a sigh. “Man, I could use an apple right now.”

“We should be close now, anyway,” Sofia says. She sits on a flattish rock, and pulls three red apples from her bag. “We can snack, and then start looking from here.”

Wormwood sits down gratefully. Too taken with the task ahead and his own dreary thoughts, he had almost forgotten about the blisters under his feet. He stretches his long legs out, and sinks his teeth messily in the red fruit, suddenly famished. Sofia laughs at him, but for some reason it doesn't bother him. It's almost pleasant, in fact. _How odd_.

As soon as they're done eating, Sofia gets up to look around, and Wormwood tries a couple of healing spells for his feet.

“You're still using the Wand,” Sofia scolds, waving her apple core at him.

“I need to walk there to give it back, don't I?” Rolling his eyes, Wormwood holds the spell until the sore spots harden to calluses, so that walking barefoot won't hurt anymore. “Finally, that's better.”

“That's a personal vendetta against shoes if I've seen one,” Minimus comments, still chewing. “And that's coming from a horse.”

“Look!” Sofia exclaims before he can reply, pointing to the cliffside above them. “I think it's the _Hocus Crocus_! Wormwood, gimme a boost!”

“A what?” The child reaches her arms up towards him, waving her hands impatiently. He looks from her to the cliffside, way too high for any of them to reach. “You mean I should... lift you?”

“Yeah! If you stand on Minimus' back, and I stand on your shoulders, I think we can reach it.”

For a moment, Wormwood can't move a step. He stands paralysed as the horse nudges him in the shins, his gaze trained to his hands and their long arched claws, chilled sweat down his spine.

“But―” he starts to say, but a gust of wind makes the delicate violet flower tremble above them. Sofia releases a small noise of impatience, pulling on his robe.

“Quick! Before the wind blows it away!”

Wormwood sets his jaw, and bends to lift the Princess onto his shoulders. She weights even less than Cedric, and the cautious grasp of his fingers encompasses the whole of her waist. His claws don't cut her, not even when he has to tighten his grip to hold both of them up as they climb onto the horse's back.

“Steady, will you?” he snaps, when Minimus opens his wings for balance.

“Hey, we're all doing our best here,” is the cordial, yet strained, reply. “Sofia, can you reach?”

“Almost, almost,” she grits, bracing on the rock and digging the balls of her feet into Wormwood's shoulders. “I hope this time the wind doesn't do that trick at the last seco-o-ond―!”

Of course it does. As the second gust of wind tugs away the fragile roots of the Crocus, an inch from Sofia's extended fingers, Wormwood watches the Princess jerk back to grab it as if time had slowed down.

She breathes, “Got it―!” But her triumph ends in a gasp as she tips off balance. Wormwood spins on himself, leaping off the horse's back after the shift in Sofia's weight. The moment of suspension ends brusquely, with his knees an inch from the edge of the ravine.

He lets out a long exhale. When he opens his eyes, the purple flower is in his face, Sofia's fingers closed around the stem the way Wormwood's fingers are closed around her ribcage: firmly, but without harm.

“Nice catch!” Sofia laughs, throwing her short arms around Wormwood's neck. He has seen her hug Cedric a couple of times, but can't really move or react, blood still chilled in his veins. She squeezes him briefly and says, “Thank you! We did it! You can be nice, see?”

“What―why did you do that, you little tyke?!” he hisses. “Do you have a _death wish_?”

“No! I didn't want to lose the Crocus!” Sofia says, as though it made perfect sense. Still propped in Wormwood's arms, she pulls a little pouch from her bag, and neatly folds the flower away. Her voice, right next to his ear, seems to come from the other side of a room, and his arms won't unclench. “Minimus would have caught me if you missed, don't worry.”

“That's a lot of misplaced faith, Princess,” Minimus notes, in a shaky voice, “It was really cool, but I also got a coronary there so please don't do it again?”

“Alright,” Sofia shrugs.

“Let's just... go back, shall we,” Wormwood mutters, untangling his arms and rising to his feet. He flexes his fingers, amazed. The Princess is another small and scrawny thing, and yet the touch of his hands doesn't seem to have done any harm. Is it all a matter of control and habit, has the previous night's instance been merely a lapse?

For most of the trip back, as the Princess and the horse chat amiably, he doesn't utter a word. The trip back seems much shorter, and soon he recognises the twists and turns of the river under them.

“There is where I spent the night,” Wormwood says, pointing down. Sofia tilts her weight to make Minimus fly lower, until his front hooves graze the tops of the trees.

“Ohh, how pretty!” she says. The meander, with its bright greenish water and the mangrove roots clutching the riverbanks, looks so different in the daylight. There is no trace of the dense mist the fox asked him to do something about.

“It is scary at night, I assure you,” he says, a bit sullen. Sofia chuckles at him.

“You couldn't stay in the tower after what you did, could you?” she says, sobering up. She frees one hand from the reins and pats gently on his, where it grips the front of the saddle at her side. “You started feeling bad right away.”

Wormwood doesn't answer, but he knows she doesn't need him to. He thinks of the flower in her bag, the flowers in the workshop, the folded up robe in his own pocket. Will all of this do any good? What then? The burden of being human feels like it's been on his shoulders for weeks instead of hours.

“Don't worry, alright?” Sofia says, when the castle comes into view, curtain of clouds thickening above it. He realizes he's been quiet for a while. “If you talk to Mr. Cedric as soon as you can, I'm sure you'll be able to fix it, and everything will―does the island look a bit too yellow for the season to you guys?”

The instant he follows her lead, Wormwood can tell exactly _where_ the early autumn is spreading from. At the very centre of a wide circle of paradoxical drought, encompassing almost the whole island and blurred green at the edge, even from here he can see the dry branches that were the Well's overgrown hedges.

“Possibly,” he evades, and the chill that runs down his spine has nothing to do with either the drizzle that started to fall once more, nor with flying wingless a mile up in the sky.

They circle the island, flying briefly over the village― _so that's where all the mist went_ , Wormwood notes, watching it advance to the castle like an earth-bound cloud―and land as stealthily as possible.

As Sofia is getting saddle and bridle off the horse, a Guard runs to them.

“Mr. Corax, right?” the young man says, addressing Wormwood with a certain stiffness. The raven nods. It's fair: he knows the face of this Guard, but never bothered to remember his name either. The man spots Sofia and bows quickly. “Princess.”

“Hi, Frederick,” Sofia says, pouring fresh water in Minimus' bucket. Wormwood shakes his head; it wouldn't be a surprise if she knew every guard by name at this point.

“Please follow me,” the man says, turning to Wormwood again. He gestures to the landing pad, where a flying coach awaits. “The King urgently requests your aid in the village.”

Roland sure is quick to take people on their word, Wormwood thinks. Before he can give an answer, the King himself jogs up to them, exuding an air of impatience.

“Oh, here you are, Sofia!” he says with a smile, spotting her. “We haven't seen you all morning, I was wondering where you'd disappeared to!”

“I just gave W― _Mr. Corax_ here a tour of the royal grounds, Dad,” Sofia lies smoothly. “We took advantage of the nice morning. Here's an apple for you!”

Wormwood tilts his head in evaluation. Not technically a lie: a half-truth and a distraction tactic in close succession, Sofia's voice barely a little faster than usual. On the King's face, not a clue. Impressive.

She hides things with a lot of ease for someone so irritatingly good at heart. She doesn't need her parents to know she ventured so far in the kingdom with someone they believe to be a complete stranger, fully confident in her own assessment. And, certainly, she doesn't want them to know she almost plunged down a ravine at the top of a mountain just an hour ago. Wormwood catches her eye when she glances up, and concedes her an intrigued eyebrow raise.

“I see, I see,” the King says, twirling the apple in his hands before taking a bite from it. Looking back at Wormwood, he addresses him frankly, “You were certainly in good hands, then, Corax. But I hope you're up for another flight!”

“Of course,” he bows curtly, his voice oily.

“Are you going to the village for that dam thing?” Sofia pipes up. “Couldn't I come too, Dad?”

“I'm afraid not, sweetie,” the King answers gently. It is almost sickening, the _care_ in everyone's voice when they address her. “The matter could be a bit dangerous, near the river in this weather and all.”

Sofia's lips thin into a line of displeasure, but she doesn't insist, the finality clear in her father's voice. As soon as the King has pet her on the head and turned his back to instruct the guard, she shoots Wormwood a conspiratorial glance.

“We wouldn't want the Princess to be in any danger, now, would we?” Wormwood smirks. Sofia gives a dainty shrug, and makes to pull the satchel over her head.

In that moment, the King calls him again, and he has no time to get the Hocus Crocus back. Wordlessly, she sets the bag back on her shoulder and gives him a thumbsup. Seems he'll have to leave it in Sofia's care, just like the secret about his identity. He nods, and sweeps away, walking briskly to the carriage just as the King calls him once more.

Once there, he wants to ask what they're waiting for, if they were in such a hurry, but the King precedes him.

“Now, if only Baileywick can find Cedric, we'll get going,” he says, with an edge of contempt. Wormwood's stomach does a backflip. _So soon?_ “Two sorcerers are better than one, right? Especially since Cedric's a bit―well, nevermind. I hope you can... manage to work together.”

Wormwood swallows soundlessly, Roland's words leaving a sour taste in his mouth. The previous day at dinner, he briefly wondered why he used to find the guy so repulsive: seen with his family, he seemed such a skilful leader and an amiable man. He remembers thinking, _the people would rally for this man_ , and feeling a deep unease creep into the very core of all his plans. Now, hearing him make jabs at Cedric behind his back like this, in front of a stranger...

“Talk to me, my friend, let us pass the time” the King sighs, startling Wormwood out of his reverie. Wormwood wishes he would stop calling him that. Sofia is one thing, but the man he regarded as an enemy for three decades... “And please, excuse Sofia for dragging you off, she's a pint-sized force of nature. How do you like our fine kingdom, so far?”

The raven throws a glance to his surroundings, looking for inspiration. “Hm, you have interesting... ways of getting around,” he notes, gesturing to the flying coach. Knowing it will fall flat, he deadpans, “Good thing I am not afraid to fly.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Roland says, proudly pushing his chest out. “A royal prerogative, flying horses. They are very rare, just a few wild herds from here to Tangu.”

Wormwood modulates an impressed hum. “Must be useful in battle, I presume?”

“Well, now,” the King says, with the same pensive noise Sofia often makes, “I do hope we never see battle, to be frank. And we would need some more horses and coaches... and sturdier materials.” Somewhat fondly, he knocks on the old lacquered wood. “But yes, they sure have been a tactical advantage throughout history.”

“But not the only advantage,” he sayss, maybe with a bit too much certainty. The King gives him a slightly disturbed look.

“Fear not, we won't be under attack anytime soon,” he placates, as if trying to coax a wild forest creature, the smallest trace of offense in his voice. “The other rulers and I work hard everyday to preserve our friendly relations, within the Tri-Kingdom Area and beyond. I will keep doing my very best to ensure we enjoy this peace for a long time.”

Wormwood clenches his jaw to smother a laugh. _We'll see_. “My interest is purely academic, of course,” he says softly.

“Well,” Roland says, taking a last bite of apple and looking up in recollection, “for example, around three centuries ago, when my forefather King Rupert ruled―”

“A time of great invasions, warmongering, and overthrowing attempts,” Wormwood interjects, rapt. He clears his throat. “Apologies. Please continue.”

Holding back from speaking one's mind sure is hard. _Maybe I am a secrecy hazard, after all_. But then, he reasons, Enchancian history is famous enough for an outsider to know the broad strokes.

“Yes, well,” the King concedes, electing to humour the tactless foreigner. “From what the records tell us, enemies kept using magic to get in and out as they pleased, and that made it necessary for us to protect the castle against it. Most of the defence system against apparition spells was set by Solomon the Sentient himself―who was Royal Sorcerer at the time, I'm sure you know―and is still in place today.”

“Against _Transport_ charms, you mean?” Wormwood asks, feigning ignorance.

“Yes! It is impossible now to magically appear on the castle grounds from the outside. And from what I understand, some crucial places―like the armoury, the dungeons, and the Sorcerer's tower―are... uncracked?”

“ _Uncrackable_ ,” Wormwood corrects out of habit. “Warded against all access except people plainly walking in or out, so that magic cannot be used to free prisoners, or access weapons and magical artefacts.”

“Exactly! You really know your stuff, Corax!” the King says, genuinely impressed. “We were lucky you came to us when we needed you.”

He claps him on the back, and Wormwood has the sudden urge to do the same, but with enough force to shove him across the landing pad.

“I find it _remarkable_ ,” he says delicately, trying not to let the threat show through too much, “this focus on the defence, and the lengths you'd go to avoid spilling enemy blood. Quite the break from the past, so to speak.”

Roland shifts his weight, now looking decidedly uncomfortable. No human likes being compared to their predecessors, Wormwood deduces.

“We'd prefer not to spill anyone's blood, frankly. I'd imprison a criminal for life, at best. I mean, at worst.” The King blinks, clearing his throat. “For crimes against the state, or murder... very serious offences. Or I might have to throw someone in the dungeon for a bit... but luckily, I haven't had to do it in years.”

“Indeed? Is there no crime that would warrant capital punishment?” When the King looks at him weird again, he tones it down with some more oil, “Forgive my directness. Where I was born, the laws aren't so lenient.”

The animal world is, after all, unfair by design: the law of nature takes no prisoners, cannot be escaped, and even the mighty predators must succumb to its rules of balance.

“The Royal Library is at your disposal, my friend,” the King says, nodding graciously, if a bit tense. “Personally, I consider our laws _just_ rather than lenient. Bodily harm is such a serious instance, we wouldn't be models of coherence if we used it as punishment, would we? A moment,” Roland looks away, towards the stone arch that leads to the castle entrance, unable to hold his impatience. “What is taking Baileywick so long, I wonder? The man is nearly a recluse, for goodness sake, where could he be? … where was I?”

“Bodily harm,” Wormwood echoes, with an easing gesture.

“Ah, yes. A line that should never be crossed, at all costs,” he says, index raised. “All the more so within friendly relations! I try to teach my children and my subjects the same principles, you see.”

He smiles, earnest, and Wormwood forces himself to smile back. There is something, hanging unsaid behind the King's eye, some unresolved thorn in his side, from a past that isn't proper discussing with a stranger. Wormwood can sense it, smell the discomfort. _Don't start thinking now of your mistakes of youth, Roland,_ he thinks mockingly. _There wouldn't be enough space in that Library of yours._

… _and yet, not that I'm any better,_ he finds himself thinking.

“I see,” he says instead. His voice came out a bit smaller than intended.

After a satisfied nod, the King turns back to wonder out loud where his Steward could possibly be.

* * *

 

Cedric stays cooped up in Sofia's room for most of the morning.

With the aid of daylight, filtered in streaks of grey through the intermittent drizzle, the dreamless slumber he had been longing for finally comes to him. He vaguely recalls the Princess getting up and puttering about, the ephemeral touch of a small hand on his cheek... but no one comes to bother him, even after she's been gone for a few hours.

Like the previous morning, getting up proves difficult. When he manages to pull himself awake, groggily feeling around for sheets and feathers that aren't there, he is lying supine with one leg out of the window-seat, the back of his head against the wall, and a spot of drool on his shoulder. The Princess must have seen him like that when she got up, he thinks, rubbing his sticky eyelids. How disgraceful.

Cedric nearly falls from the window-seat when he bends to retrieve Sofia's red blanket, slid off him at some point during the night. He throws it back on the cushions, and forces himself to get up. His back and arm still ache, and all of his limbs feel heavy and sore, just like the whole week after the Merroway Cove fiasco.

He's not exactly tired, either. He knows himself, he wouldn't be able to sleep more anyway. Rather, he feels _drained_ , as if all his energy had been sucked out, leaving him barely enough to keep himself upright, his stomach hurting as if he had been used as a punch bag.

“Must be my shaken nerves,” he mutters, cold floor sending chills up his bare feet as he recovers his shoes from near the fireplace. His grey socks, dried stiff the previous night like the rest of his clothes, have yellowish halos on them, and putting them back on is almost physically painful.

He helps himself to Sofia's washbasin, and the pink towel she already lent him. When he looks back around the room, a bit more awake and cognizant, he notices a sheet of paper on the floor next to the window. It's folded in two, with a little heart on the top fold. That as well must have fallen off him, he guesses.

 _Dear Mr. Cedric,_ it says, _good morrow! I'm sorry you had such a bad night. I made sure no one will come in, so please stay as long as you need. Remember to have breakfast! –Sofia_

He glances back guiltily at the blanket, that he left crumpled up on the window-seat like a common rug. With a sigh, he pockets the letter and goes to fold it.

Then, feeling like an incautious deer stepping out of the protection of the woods, he tiptoes out of the room. Wondering if it's too late in the day to sneak to the laundry room unseen, he avoids the escalator and stalks towards the ground floor, ducking into side-hallways at the first sound of a servant's step. Just as he's about to make it, his hand on the railing, Baileywick himself turns a corner and does a double-take.

“Ah, Cedric! I've been looking everywhere for you!” the Steward calls, marching to him in a hurried stiff trot. Frozen in place, Cedric glances left and right for escape routes, and confirms there is none. He fidgets under the man's inquisitive gaze, trailing down the miserable state of his attire. “My, where is your robe? And your _tie_?”

“In my tower,” Cedric replies dryly, looking away. “What do you want?”

The Steward glances at his pocket-watch and, for once, cuts it short. The King needs him right away, he says, they are going to the village to do something about the dam.

“Does he... need me to build the dam?” Cedric asks, between tentative and disbelieving. “What am I, an engineer now?”

“Obviously not, don't be silly,” Baileywick scoffs. “He just needs you to do something about all this rain. It's really been slowing the works down, and it's going to start again in―” he checks his watch again, “well, practically now, since it took me a good twenty-five minutes to find you.”

“The rain,” Cedric repeats slowly, ignoring the jabs. “The King wants me to... stop the rain.”

“Only above the area where the workers need viability. A thirty feet span, perhaps?” the Steward says primly, like only a man without the slightest inkling of how magic works could. Explaining how complex this request actually is would take hours, so Cedric just closes his eyes and pretends to be somewhere else for a moment. “Anyway, once you see the situation, I'm confident you will find a way.”

“At least one of us is,” Cedric mutters out the corner of his mouth. If Wormwood were perched on his shoulder, he'd be stifling a chuckle right now― _No_ , he chides himself, _don't go there. Not here, not now._

“Also, while you're at it,” Baileywick goes on, unperturbed, “if you would be so kind as to do something about all this fog too, it would surely help.”

Cedric blinks, a blissful empty moment of stupor in his crowded mind. “The... fog.”

“Yes, _fog._ I'm sure you have noticed, it's causing all sorts of visibility issues,” the Steward repeats, his tone so drily polite he could have just mocked him and spared them both the bother. As certain as if he were the one who has to do it, he says, “With the Family Wand, it shouldn't be a problem at all.”

 _Drat_. He really had to go and bring the Wand into this. Cedric chews on his tongue until the saliva turns sour in his mouth. Not only he doesn't have the Family Wand, but not even his everyday one. Out of habit, he starts thinking of how to phrase what's happening when he will retell the story to Wormwood, in a way that will make him flop his wing over his face and laugh― _stop it, you dimwit._

“Yes, yes, I'll be there,” he snaps, just to get Baileywick off his back as he steps in the general direction of the tower.

They want him to battle the elements, just when he feels like a single raindrop would knock him off his feet... the minimum they can do is wait until he breaks into his own tower to steal back his own clothes, at least. Maybe his everyday wand is still there on the floor somewhere―

“Good! Come along then, there's absolutely _no_ time to waste,” Baileywick says instead. The retort dies in his throat when he sees the armed guards summoned at the Steward's call. Baileywick takes a young one by the shoulder. “Carl, please go and tell the King I _finally_ found him.”

As if time were going at a slower pace, Cedric watches the young guard nod and scuttle off, short ponytail swinging with each step down the stairs. For a moment, as the other guards escort and all but rush them down and outside, he is seized by the fear that Wormwood actually spoke the truth―that Sofia has lied to him, that he's being thrown out and banished right then and there.

His heart doesn't climb down from his throat until he has hoisted himself into the carriage after Baileywick―the covered winter coach, re-equipped for flight after the crash on last Wassalia, instead of the usual barouche. And there, in the very air already heavy with the smell of damp old upholstery, another bad feeling makes the tiny hairs on his nape stand on end.

And in the seat on the far right, poised like a panther dozing in the sun, Wormwood sits.

The pit of his stomach, where he still feels like he's been punched, twists into a leaden knot. Cedric has spent all night and morning fighting thoughts and memories of him... and now he's _there_ ―it really did happen. All of it.

Cedric sinks his teeth in the inner part of his lips, forcing his stiff legs to move and bend and let him take a seat in the coach he'd want to be a thousand miles from. It is surreal, to see Wormwood sitting there like he belongs in that seat, as if he really undertook the role he threatened to steal from him, draped in the very robes Cedric put on him.

Wormwood lifts his bright green eyes, painfully familiar in the uncanny grace of his human features, meeting his gaze as casually as a stranger passing by. Immediately, Cedric starts avoiding them, and they both do a good job at staying calm. At least, Cedric does. Wormwood doesn't seem fazed at all... which shouldn't come as a surprise, he tells himself, biting down until his lip hurts more than the sting in his eyes.

“Mr. Cedric,” Wormwood finally greets him, hatefully neutral. Hearing his name in Wormwood's mouth, Cedric feels like he's being thrown out all over again. His neck still itches with the memory of his grip― _that is not Wormwood_ , he affirms. _This thing is nothing like the companion I used to have_. “Pity the young Princess couldn't come with us. She was just telling me how she wished to see you.”

Cedric scoots on the seat, until there is as much distance as possible between the two of them, a diagonal of space crowded with Baileywick's and someone else's knees and their hanging hostility.

“Mr... _Corax_ ,” he manages to hiss, in a deliberate hesitation. He stiffens, inside and out, willing the raven's very gaze to stop burning him. “Indeed, pity.”

 _How dare he mock me like this_ , he thinks, his thoughts in a roil, crossing his arms over his chest to hide their irate tremble, _hasn't he done enough?_ Is Wormwood determined to bully him until he resigns and leaves on his own accord? Have he and Sofia met behind his back, what has Wormwood told her―and what has Sofia told _him_ ―?

Someone on his left side coughs delicately, and just then he notices the King is there too.

“Y-your Majesty,” he saves, in a breathless gasp, bowing awkwardly in his seat. He sat down without acknowledging the King's presence, but Roland just hand-waves his faux-pas. Baileywick, who trails after the kingly coattails like a devoted mutt, clicks his tongue in disapproval.

 _Couldn't I have just gone to the village by myself,_ he thinks angrily, _since I have to do all the work anyway?_ King and Steward tie back the ends of a conversation left hanging, probably by the need to retrieve him. Although they already have the wonderful _Mr. Corax_ , what do they need dim old Cedric for? To laugh at? Roland is reassuring Baileywick that the castle will be fine for a bit without him; as usual, Baileywick wants to protest but then holds it. Same old, same old. They're both wearing capes and thick rain-boots, Cedric notices, looking down in irritation at his very permeable shoes and socks. In his shirtsleeves, he's already cold now.

As the carriage begins to move, accelerate, and finally takes off, a heavy silence falls on the four men. Half-bathed in the white fog, the castle seems perched on a sea of nothing. An ominous, dark grey cloud breaks, and it starts to pour. Cedric heaves a sigh.

The trip is, if a bit bumpy due to the bad weather, objectively brief. It still feels like a lifetime. Roland starts asking Wormwood curious questions, and Cedric shrinks into his seat, hoping no one in the carriage will think of talking to him. He tries and fails to tune out the alien sound of Wormwood's voice as he answers. Roland has asked him about his sorcery training, and half of it sounds plausible. The other half seems to be engineered to run Cedric through the heart.

“I am originally from a small village near the sea, up in the North,” Wormwood says affably. Cedric presses his forehead into the window, the pain in his chest almost unbearable. “But I started traveling early in my youth.”

Talking about his studies, he is making use of his long experience in the field at Cedric's side, and walking the thin line of the King's ignorance―it would be hilarious, if only they were both in on the joke. Cedric knows he won't be in on Wormwood's jokes, ever again.

“And of course, later in my studies I've been tutored by Mr. Cedric here.” The mention of his name makes him whip his head around, like a slap to the face.

“Oh? When was this?” Baileywick perks up, looking from one to the other. “You can't be that much apart in age, can you?”

 _Mr. Corax is younger than he looks,_ he could say, but his jaws feel cemented together. He seethes in silence. _In fact, he's never held a damn wand before yesterday._

“So you two know each other!” the King says, sounding oddly delighted, a lot of unguarded surprise in his voice. “Marvellous, why haven't you said it sooner?”

“We are only six years apart, and actually go way back,” Wormwood says, with unthinkable cruelty.

The other two turn to look at Cedric with their eyebrows up in their hairline, and Cedric forces himself to nod. He hunches over, a cold ache spreading into his middle, like someone stabbed him with a Foreverfrost dagger.

Uncaring if Cedric freezes to death and shatters, Wormwood adds, “It is so ingrained, I guess neither of us thought of mentioning it.”

Then, completely earnest, Baileywick comments that for having been tutored by Cedric, _Mr. Corax_ is incredibly competent, and compliments him on his make-do skills. The King gives the most gracefully held back hint of a snort Cedric has heard in a while.

The crystalline chink in the raven's ego, too, is almost audible. For the first time in his life, a jab at his expense actually makes Cedric feel better, because Wormwood's smile stiffens, and his affable tone dries to annoyance as he answers the next few questions. After a while, Cedric stops listening completely, watching the raindrops streak the windows, the treetops poke out of the mist under them, as rocks out of a steamy sea.

The swollen Royal River extends under them like a thin grey snake. It reaches a considerable width some miles in each direction, changing many names and touching many lakes in its course. But near the village of Dunwiddie, it is not much more than a navigable, if a tad fickle, creek. Nevertheless, when it decides to flood, all the power of its extending body seems to concentrate on the frail spot where the forest becomes human settlement, putting the whole village at risk.

As soon as they land, it's immediately obvious that the works have fallen behind.

Earlier in the year, Cedric had been asked to employ some time consulting his books and charts, and arguing via seagull mail with the Royal Astronomer and Weatherman, and even though they couldn't agree on a precise date, they concurred that the next winter would be early, and very harsh. As soon as the villagers got air of this, they petitioned the King for the dam to be built before that, to keep the water-flow steady all year round, and Roland was finally forced to prioritize it over other matters.

“It's not going right, Your Majesty,” explain the men in patched-up raincoats and heavily worn work slacks, gesturing to the river engorged with rain and streaming fast, eroding pieced of the cradged floodbanks faster than they can work. “We fear it's already late.”

“The Old King used to be so well behaved,” says an old man, who looks like the type to don his work clothes, shake his head, and take credit even though he can't do much anymore. “But that was back in my day, when the village wasn't so big! We ate away too much of the forest, and now it wants it back.”

Everyone ignores him, leaving him to mutter by himself. Technically, he's not wrong: the fewer roots holding the riverbanks together, the easier to flood where the levees are frail and man-made. Cedric briefly entertains the thought of suggesting to plant some _devil's grass_ on them... but he has a feeling the feisty old man would petition to have him burned at the stake if he tried.

“We are still behind on the diversion channels,” the tallest man says, back to the point. “The water keeps rising, and we keep wasting time and timber.”

“And we can barely see our own feet in this damn fog!” the old man jumps in again, swatting at it with his hands as if he could push it all away. “It looks almost like a _curse_ , something from _down below_!”

Cedric finds it extremely hard not to roll his eyes. The rain is already soaking through his clothing and he's trying hard not to think this is the second time in the span of two days these clothes get wet while he's still wearing them. He convinces himself people aren't looking at him, tells himself to not mind it, not mind it, not mind it.

“Cedric, are you listening?” Baileywick says, a bit louder, making him jolt a little. It's probably the second time he repeats it.

“Of course,” he saves. “I was just... evaluating.”

He runs a hand over his forearm, looking for a robe sleeve to roll up. He finds only the sting of scabs under Sofia's bandages, the hasty stitches she put in his shirtsleeve, and the frightening absence of his wand. He breathes in, trying to appreciate the last three seconds of quiet he has.

“I have something of yours, here,” Wormwood's deep, drawling voice says, startling him from his concentration. “You left it behind, after our talk.”

 _You call that a talk?!_ he wants to yell at him, but at the same time a small hope unfurls painfully in his chest. Now he'll turn his head, and Wormy will hand him the Family Wand―its wood silver-white as it should be―and he'd be certain that what happened had been only a strange fever dream, some sort of twisted joke, a little revenge for Cedric's mistreatments. And maybe... yes, maybe he did deserve it, after all―

Something heavy flops over his head. He pulls it down, his fists full of purple fabric, dry and as dragging as glue on his wet shirt.

“Why, _thank you_ ,” he grits out, jaw locked so hard his teeth gnash, stabbing his wet arms through the ample sleeves of the robe. The disappointment is so bitter, he feels like retching. “Were you waiting for me to _drown_ , in this downpour?”

“Some of us are busy,” Wormwood replies, piqued. He throws Cedric's yellow bowtie back at him, and Cedric has neither the energy or the dignity to further the discussion. He keenly feels the men staring at them, like a prickle on the back of his neck.

“So they really do know each other,” Baileywick says out of the corner of his mouth.

It takes a few moments for the warmth to travel through the wet muslin of his shirt and reach his skin, but the purple robe was made to be worn all year round, and it traps body heat quite easily. Wormwood must have kept it under his long cloak.

Cedric tugs the sleeves in place, and in the left one, he finds his purple wand. He glances at the raven with suspicion, but Wormwood is playing dumb and looking straight ahead, pretending to listen to the humans' complaints. It's not the Family Wand, but it's something, isn't it?

Dedicating a bit of thought to the task ahead, now that it seems doable, he considers his options. They want him to _stop the rain_ , so they can work without plunging in the mud to the knee. Since he can summon a little shower or blizzard at will, they are probably convinced he can just control the weather, as if he could just put the village under a giant umbrella and...

“Aha,” he murmurs, _here's an idea_. Moving closer to the water, he waves his wand in a circular motion, creating a small silver dome, and then lifts his hands to let it ascend, and expand until it covers both sides of the river.

“Oh, it's working,” Roland's voice says, in a tone of complete disbelief, his palms held up to catch the spare raindrops. The men around him emit a few grunts of surprise, touching the expanding barrier of rain pushed off by the spell, like easily entertained children.

“Bah, _witchcraft_ ,” the old man mutters, spitting on the ground.

Pretending he hasn't seen or heard, Cedric casts hopeful eyes up to his spell, wondering how to hold it up without having to stay there the whole time.

Then, where the silver barrier touches the fog, it seems to weaken, like a worn fabric stretched too thin. The first holes appear, letting in water―is it going to explode like the window did? In a moment, the shield rips and the contained rain slathers down on them. A few harsh words fly―the old codger sure has a lot to say about his mother―but none harsher than his own inner voice.

“Were you going with an Impervious charm?” Wormwood asks, his steps squelching behind him, until his tall frame is directly between him and the workers. “Don't you need a basis to make it stable?”

Wormwood towers over him, just like the evening before, dwarfing him in his shadow, pushing him to the side without a single touch.

“Yes, _obviously_ , that's what I was going for―they made me lose my focus,” he hisses, tightlipped. Waving a hand in the direction of the thick mist, he complains, “Also there's something blocking my spells in there.” _Maybe it really is cursed_.

Wormwood emits a pensive hum. “Let me try,” he says.

Just when Cedric was starting to consider putting what happened aside, Wormwood pulls the Family Wand from his sleeve, and brandishes it like he has any right to it. The bile climbs back up to his mouth.

“Be my guest,” he grunts. A glance behind him is enough for his morale to plummet―an almost physical vertigo―and he has to steel himself at the look of complete resignation on the King's face. Both he and Baileywick are already looking expectantly at Wormwood.

Cedric cannot bear to watch him wave the Family Wand, and use spells that were never taught him the proper way. Out of the corner of his eye, he can still see the confidence in his gestures, the vigorous certainty of his craft. _That's the type of wand-work Father would praise_ , he can't help but think, his guts twisting with envy.

But Wormwood's spell, to everyone's surprise, also fails. It dissipates into thin air, as if the approaching fog ate it away. The edges of the world become blurry in Cedric's vision, his head spins, and he has to take a step forward not to trip. He must be a lot more tired than he thought, he thinks, trying to blink the dizziness away.

“It doesn't seem possible to contain it,” Wormwood is saying, as if he had been explaining how magic works to Kings and peasants all his life. Calmly, confidently, without a trace of shame. Cedric _hates_ him.

“Some Royal Sorcerers you got, Your Majesty,” the old man barks, deaf to the others' exasperated shushing. “Back in my day, when Roland the First was in charge, they'd be thrown in the dungeon to rot...”

“Aw, pity. We really hoped you could help us,” the King says, a bit loudly over the old man's rant. _How is it, being the one compared to your father, for once?_ Cedric tries to convey in a glance, trying not to gloat too clearly. Wouldn't it be great, if Roland started falling from the people's favour right here under his eyes? The public humiliation will surely make him snap at Wormwood too... “But I'm sure you did your best, Corax.”

Embittered, Cedric glances over to the river, current eating away at the levees like the seething anger inside him is eating away his resilience. Maybe he also needs to build a dam, somewhere in himself, so all of these little things won't erode him anymore.

“Of course,” Cedric says out loud, to everyone's confusion. He doesn't feel like explaining, so he just moves even closer to the cradges, standing just a few feet from the water. If the elements won't be contained, for some reason, then he must get to the root of the problem, and eliminate the need for the work altogether.

Someone starts to say, “Hey, don't go so close to the―” but he tunes it out mid-sentence. For this, he needs focus. _His best_ , he scoffs, _I'll show you a real sorcerer's best._

The river just needs a weir crest, not even that tall, with a couple of wooden floodgates in it―should be more than enough, for a river this small, how hard can it be? The trick is, he must hold back the current and at the same time switch the timber with the stones piled on their side of the river... a bit tricky, but it can be done. That strange mist eating away his spells, though, could prove to be an impediment.

Behind him, he hears the rustle of Wormwood's robe, and a muttered spell. A strong gust of wind, like the wingstroke of some mythical bird, makes the fog curl on itself and recede. Wormwood is grinning, smug in his success.

“ _Showoff_ ,” Cedric mutters. So _this_ is what he threatened him with, he thinks with a shudder. Something, probably the fear from the previous night, makes him dizzy again for a moment.

Wormwood's spell goes to his advantage, anyway. Quickly, he loads a containment spell powerful enough to block the current, and casts it just behind the stoplogs already wedged in the riverbed. It works, but the water quickly starts to overflow the half-done diversion channels.

“Are you trying to flood the village, warlock?” someone shouts over the daunting rumble of water, and the King's voice says his name in a tone of warning. Cedric, holding the containment spell in place with one hand, and levitating the stones so they'll float into the river, can't tell apart the drops of rain and sweat running down his temples anymore. The men keep shouting, agitated like a coop of frenzied chickens, but he's only half-listening.

“Do you want the job done, or not?” Wormwood finally barks, his commanding voice instantly shutting everyone up. The raven casts another couple of wind-strokes―to keep the fog at bay and the men silent, Cedric guesses.

Putting all his strength into it, Cedric aligns the stones into formation and binds them together, leaving the space for three floodgates underneath. The timber, now in need of repurposing, he severs to wooden flashboards, secured in place by scores in the drystone wall.

“Oh, hey, it's a dam,” someone comments. Cedric heaves a sigh.

His arms and knees are shaking, as if he had lifted and dragged every pound of stone with his own muscles. In lack of anything to grab for support, he grips his own good forearm behind his back. This took him a lot more energy than he thought... but at least it's done now. His vision starts swimming, and he blinks and blinks as the countryside wobbles around him.

“How will it hold together, though?” a voice asks. “It's already filling up!”

Out the corner of his eye, Cedric sees Wormwood's shoulders drop a little. With what must be the stiffest, most annoyed flick of wand ever waved, the raven lifts the floodgates, letting the contained water spill out in an orderly, regular flow. The diversion channels gradually empty out, leaving the dug up earth uncovered.

Immediately, as if everything fell into place in their minds in a single instant, the group of men gasps in awe.

“It works! Great job!” the King exclaims, trotting near to clap Wormwood on the back. The others follow him, a small crowd around the raven who of course, of course they'd think he was the one to save the day. _Of course_. “I knew we could count on you!”

Cedric turns away, his vision blurry. Just because Wormwood got all the credit, it doesn't mean he has to stare at his gloating face, does it? He can barely hear the enthusiastic voices anyway, through the deafening buzz in his ears. The dizziness is not going away. Is he about to faint, right there in front of everyone?

The soil bucks under Cedric's feet, and he takes half a step back, trying to steady himself. Then, a vertigo like a rush of wind knocks into him―and under his heel, only air. Dazed, he looks down, to the still swollen river awaiting, like a gaping maw that groans, _finally, witch-boy, finally._

 _Wormwood doesn't look like he's gloating_ , he thinks in a vague instant, glancing back up. The raven's face is stiff, as between contempt and disbelief. The last thing he sees is a shot of bright green as Wormwood meets his eye, his jaw tensing up in a mute gasp.

Then the cold swallows, and the world goes dark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clients from hell, Enchancia edition.


	8. Leech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which regret hits, and broken spells can't be restored.

Wormwood opens his eyes to a blur of purple, and wet hair in his face.

 _The Crocus...?_ Is he still at the top of the mountain, only his raptor-like reflexes standing between Sofia and certain death, the rest of his memories only a fleeting dream—? But the weight is different, and the shape is different, and he has to adjust his hold not to let the listless figure in his arms slip away. His ears are ringing, full of the rumbling sound of his own breathing. Slowly, in the still dissipating green smoke and the rain dripping down his temples, he blinks a gloved hand into focus, lying lifeless on the grey stones under him―under them.

Shaking his head, he looks around. He is kneeling on the bridge, heaving, just outside the castle's gates. His arms are folded tightly around Cedric, as though the sorcerer were going to be forcefully pried from his grasp any moment. The two guards at the gate are staring at them, too stunned to speak.

 _How did we get here?_ he wonders, fighting to clear his mind. What has happened, back on the riverside? It rains on his shoulders, but he cannot move, all limbs locked, smoke still too dense. He remembers Cedric falling backwards, remembers shoving the people aside to go after him, like he did with Sofia... his outstretched nails missing the edge of his robe by an inch. _I must have Transported_ , he realises, and a shudder runs through his entire body. He must have leapt off the levee, clutched the sorcerer, and disappeared in a cloud of green smoke before they could touch the water. His instincts aimed for the tower, but the defence system bounced them back at the gates.

Still winded, he glances down at Cedric's face, and the now familiar sinking feeling seizes him again. The sorcerer's head lolls back, all of his limbs seem to hang, disjointed, a stringless doll draped across Wormwood's forearms. The rain falls in his face, light catching on the bluish cast of his lips. On his stretched neck, faint blue markings that he doesn't recognise. If it weren't for the feeble exhales rattling their way out of him, he could be mistaken for... somewhere, deep inside him, something whispers, _you've made a mistake_.

“E-everything alright?” a guard asks, barely recovered from their sudden appearance, making to step towards them.

Wormwood glares up at the men, and the look on his face must say either murder or bare despair―or both―because one of them steps back, but the other still asks, “Are you in need of assistance...? R-reaching the tower, I mean.”

“No, stay... stay back,” he grits out. He climbs to his feet and pulls the sorcerer up with him. He doesn't quite know how to lift him, but Cedric is the wrong size to hold by the middle like Sofia. The guard still inches towards him, but the mere idea of letting anyone even _near_ Cedric... like a visceral pull, he needs to bring him back _home_ , where he'll be hidden, _safe_. “We're fine. There was a little incident. Just let me through.”

He folds his long sleeves around the sorcerer to shield him from their eyes, and though he's still uncertain on how to carry him, he strides forward. The guards let him pass, blinking and staring, and Wormwood makes a beeline for the tower's backdoor as soon as he's inside the walls.

It takes him almost the whole way, but he figures it out: one arm supporting the back, other arm scooping up the knees, lean back a little to compensate for the additional weight. He's halfway up the staircase when he hears the King's carriage land on the pad outside, and his instincts scream at him to make haste, precede it, make it to the lair before someone can see them.

He wonders what explanation the King gave for their sudden disappearance. _What do I care?_ Now they have what they needed, Cedric did all the work for them―and he recalls how he had to shoulder the men out of his way, how no one noticed anything or lifted a finger. He's been hearing all about this kind of thing for ages, and yet it's different now, closer in a way he had no way to experience when he wasn't part of the human world.

Slam of the carriage door. Voices from outside. His legs surer with every step, he keeps glancing down to the unconscious sorcerer he's carrying. Cedric—a bundle of hostile angles last time Wormwood touched him—lies limp in his hold, rocked by the swift bounce of his step, face mushed into his shoulder. After talking about him all morning, the physical weight of his body is overwhelming, radiating heat as burning coals pressed into his arms and chest. And yet, the longer he carries him, the lighter he seems to become.

“We're almost there,” he tells him. He thought they'd both be awake, next time they found themselves alone, the one-sided conversation a painful reminder of the past. He cannot take his eyes off the parting in his wet hair, still so neat, so near him.

When the stairs are over, he needs his hands to open the door. Very carefully, Wormwood hoists him onto his shoulder.

“There! We made it,” he exhales when the lair door slams shut behind them, the familiar noise shaking something loose in his chest, some breath he didn't know he was holding. One way or another, he returned Cedric to his tower. Everything is still in place, he notes with a brief spark of satisfaction. “I can't wait for you to see it, when you wake up.”

 _If_ , something murmurs, but he shoves it down. He shakes his head, and trots to the chambers downstairs.

“Now,” he says out loud, to keep himself focused, to keep the voices quiet. “You should be dry, right? Sofia says you'll get sick otherwise.”

With the sorcerer still slung over his shoulder, he pulls a few towels from the pile he and Sofia laundered a few hours before, then marches to the bed and makes a hasty job of spreading them. Then, a bit of at a loss of how to manoeuvre him, he just clumsily lets Cedric fall onto them, legs dangling off the bed.

Wormwood leaves him to roll up his sleeves and look after the next logical step: the fireplace. Usually only magical fires burn in there, and there's no wood except for Goodwyn's tacky furniture, so Wormwood pulls the Wand out and sets to conjure a flame. It takes a couple of tries, and only makes a small blue flame... but it can do, he supposes.

Wormwood himself is wet and cold, he just realizes when the heat licks his hands. He tugs his belt loose, and shrugs his robe off, leaving it on a hanger to dry by the fire. Wondering if ravens can catch colds, he turns back to the bed―and he has to shoot forward again to catch the sorcerer before he rolls off.

“ _Morgana's Mockingbirds_ , just in time―will you _stop_ falling everywhere?” he hisses. Hooking a claw around the heel, he slips Cedric's shoes off, letting them clatter to the floor. Wet socks are just the _worst_ , or so he's been told, so he peels away the squelchy grey fabric and flings it aside. “That should be better, right?”

Cedric doesn't answer. He still looks half-dead, pale as candle-wax and limp like a blade of grass floating in a pond. The fire's heat doesn't seem to be reaching him, Wormwood notes, holding his ankles between thumb and forefinger to lift his legs up on the bed. Where they brush against his forearm, his toes feel like little icicles.

He glances back at his hanging robe. Taking it off was just instinctive, as much as shaking the water off his feathers after a good flight in the rain. Cedric will never get dry if he keeps all this wet stuff on. With a sigh, he kneels on the bed and sets to the boring task of figuring out how to remove the unbelievable quantity of things he wears.

The robe is easy, but the vest has buttons, which take a bit of time to figure out. The suspenders he just slips off Cedric's thin shoulders, to free the shirt underneath. He ends up flipping him on his stomach to get the shirt off, soaked to the point that his entire undershirt can be seen through it. He is just pulling his left sleeve, momentarily distracted by the stitches in it, when Cedric's arm flops out of it. It has been wrapped in gauze, but the movement has tugged the bandages loose.

“Did I... did I scratch you so deep?” he whispers, taking in the four lines of dried blood, breath hitching. “I hadn't realised...”

Also, somehow, the full shape of his hand is still on Cedric's skin, in the same bluish hue he's seen _somewhere_. Has he stained him somehow? He continues his task, with each layer closer to the skin, growing more stressed he'll scratch him again even with his nails truncated. Swallowing hard, with just the very tips of his claws, he rucks up the undershirt to slip it off Cedric's head, mussing up his hair, and lets it fall to the floor.

Below the undershirt, the sorcerer's back is covered in purple stains. The most of it on his left side and spine, the mottling varies between bluish and reddish hues, to an edge of green-yellow, like watercolour paint. Wormwood tilts his head, trying to think of where he has seen something like this before.

As he dries him off with one of the towels, the raven makes a careful attempt to sweep the stains away, but they look like they are _in_ the skin— _Bruising,_ he finally realizes, noticing the slight swelling around the raised knobs of Cedric's spine. It hits him like a kick in the chest. Of course, he's seen it before, on other humans... it is blood, wounds trapped under the skin, redder when it's fresh, greenish when it's old and oxidised.

When he threw Cedric out, he must have landed on his back, on the cobblestones outside. There is no other explanation, it's the same as the stains on his arm and―he checks, seized by a horrible thought―those lines on his neck... they measure up perfectly, they all were left by his hands, when he gripped him... he gripped him hard enough to—

“I... I did this,” he murmurs, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, free hand hovering without daring to touch again.

He tugs the covers from the other side of the bed, and pulls them around the sorcerer's body, bundling him up. Desperate to focus on something else, his eye falls on his favourite roosting spot. He puts his hand on the clawed wood, the markings of his raven-talons so small under his large, sort-of-human fingers, darker than the deep brown wood. Even back when he was a raven, his claws used to leave marks everywhere, but never on Cedric, never deep enough to wound him.

“Don't worry, alright?” he murmurs, echoing Sofia's words in his fretting. As if in answer, his ice-cold skin finally dry and warming up, shivers start running through Cedric's prone figure. Wormwood watches him curl on his side, like a wounded hare in hiding. He tucks him in some more, whispering, “It's going to be alright. I've learnt a healing spell, just this morning. Wait here, don't fall.”

Wormwood's robe is almost dry already, so he dons it and brandishes the Wand. He crouches on the floor, carefully lifts Cedric's arm out of the covers, and loads the healing spell, pointing the Wand at the mess of clotted blood and livid skin. As he waits for it to start working, he murmurs reassurances as though Cedric could hear him. He keeps Cedric's hand in his; it is movingly small in his broad palm, a pale acer leaf that he can unfurl with just the sweep of his thumb. Called to his mind unwanted, the image of the same hands trying to pry Wormwood's fingers off his spasming throat―

 _Your best friend in the whole world_ , Sofia's voice echoes, and the smell of the bed they've shared for years―clean linens and the same talcum powder from when they were fledgelings―brings him to lay his forehead down into the soft blankets, and wish it all never happened.

But it did, and a sorcerer's companion knows no magic can change the past. He called Cedric weak, revolting, and pathetic, and other terrible things he can barely recall, as if the blinding anger that overcame him ate away his memories. But he does remember how it felt: in the moment, it brought him satisfaction, a righteous sense of vengeance, to treat him like an enemy to annihilate—to unleash all of his fury, letting his actions hurt Cedric as much as his rejection had hurt Wormwood.

 _Seems like I've hurt him alright_ , he tells himself, bitterly. Cedric _hates_ him now, he could barely stand being in that carriage with him... it was so clear from how he kept avoiding his eyes, and inching away from him. All they had is ruined, and he fears no magic or apology can ever bring it back.

“Old friend, I never meant for this to happen,” he murmurs, his eyes to the floor, able to spit it out because―as in the past thirty years―Cedric cannot hear him. His vision gets blurry again, and doesn't clear until he blinks. “I was no better than... _Roland,_ and all those others you've always despised. I am... so sorry.”

When the hand gives a small twitch, clutching briefly around his fingers, he nearly jumps. For a moment, his heart swells in hope. Now he'll wake, pulled from his stillness by the regret in his voice, and Wormwood will bring him to see the workshop and the Crocus, and praise him for the amazing job he did for those ungrateful humans. And then, finally, finally they'll _talk,_ like Sofia said and, somehow, everything will be alright again.

Expectantly, he looks up at Cedric's face. He doesn't wake.

Rather, he seems in some sort of distress, frowning and clenching his jaw and emitting a faint noise of strain, a sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. Is the magic making it worse instead of helping, has he said the spell wrong? It didn't hurt at all when Wormwood healed up his own feet in the morning... but the arm isn't healing, and Cedric looks _ill_ now, black shadows under his eyes, lips going blue again. Wormwood moves his thumb to his wrist, and the pulse in it is a shallow flutter, like the feeble wingstroke of a dying sparrow.

He breaks the spell off, so hastily a wisp of magic energy, barely visible like glistening smoke, hangs directionless from his wand for an instant. In a moment of intense focus, Wormwood stares at the faint trail, as it flows back not into him, the caster, but into Cedric instead.

“This shouldn't happen,” he mutters. Nervously, he runs his thumb on the gloved knuckles clutched in his hand. “If _I_ am the one who is casting, the energy should come from _me_...”

Notions written in large, friendly fonts on first year textbooks flash back to him. _Magic is an energy that, conveyed through a catalyst, can cause change to occur. Magic comes from a sorcerer's core. The core is where their energy is stored._

How has he been enabled to use magic, actually? He has wished to become _a sorcerer_ , but hasn't given _any_ thought to the specifics. He is just a common raven, and non-magical creatures cannot grow a core, they cannot be trained to be magic users―and magic energy, to be used, has to be stored _somewhere_.

Wormwood glances down at the Wand he's gripping, a chilling suspicion seizing him: what if the Wand is not the only thing he has stolen from Cedric...?

 _It can't be_ , he tries to reason. Cedric looked like he was barely keeping on his feet after doing his own spells, and he still pushed himself to finish what was asked of him—that must be why he collapsed. Sofia said he hadn't slept... it is only logical to think nothing of it, isn't it? Merely exhaustion, not that anybody bothered to notice. But if instead...

“Oh no,” he gasps, looking down at the hand in his, horror-struck. “I've nearly killed him.”

From the moment magic has been given to him, he made use of it... intense use. He used Transport magic, even, _twice_. If all this time he's been―

“ _N_ _o_ ,” he tells himself, stumbling to his feet, swallowing convulsively. He leaves Cedric's hand, and he has no heart to look him in the face again. Not before he gets answers. “I have to be _sure_.”

He flees the room in a whirl of black robes, Wand clutched in his fist.

* * *

 

Slowly, as if he were pulling himself out of a dark, gluey sea, Cedric comes back to his senses.

There is silence, a sort of stillness, and in the air, he can perceive an unfamiliar smell of rain and wet rib velvet. He blinks in the filtered light, taking in the weight of the duvet over him, and the uncomfortable damp chill in his whole body.

 _I am in... my bed_ , he thinks, and he feels his ribcage expand in helpless, nearly painful relief, _it must still be morning, it was all a―_ but he doesn't even have the time to finish the thought.

When he glances up, the stripes of light crossing the canopy are incongruous with those he's been seeing in all the years he woke up in his chambers. It's not morning.

He pushes on his arms to sit up, but they are so numb he falls back down, his face into the towel on his pillow. There is a towel on his pillow... and his hair is damp. He was sleeping on top of his duvet, with several other towels under him and―he notices when the other half of the heavy cover falls from his shoulders―pretty much _nude_. Except, absurdly, for his gloves and breeches.

By now expecting his hopes to be crushed, he finally finds it in himself to glance down at his forearm. The scratches are there, scabbed and ugly, surrounded by bruised skin. Of course.

“Please, _please_ , tell me at least I sleepwalked back here,” he keens into his gloved hands, slowly pulling his knees under him. But there is only one explanation: he fell into the river, and someone has fished him out and hoisted him back in the carriage, somehow carried him back to the tower and... put him to bed. He shudders. “Oh, please, just... not _Roland_.”

But it's a tie of unpleasantness with all three men in that coach, really. _No, none of them would―they'd all cut off a hand rather than put it on me, that's certain_ , he reassures himself. _It was probably a guard, someone I don't have to look in the eye. Yes. It's fine._

He stumbles out of bed— _drat_ , his back is in _agony_ —still rubbing his face, and drags himself to the washroom to rinse the sweaty film off his skin. He has no memory more recent than seeing the river under him, and yet... shouldn't he stink way more, if he fell in the river? But there's no other explanation...

He dries off absently, refusing to even glance at Wormwood's bathing basket on the thin wrought-iron shelf. He picks his scattered clothes to throw them in the laundry basket... which is empty. He halts, blinking in confusion. He clearly recalls telling Wor―reminding himself for the tenth day in a row that he should do laundry, just the previous morning.

“Am I losing my mind, here?” he asks to no one, scratching his head. Blacking out in the middle of the day, exhaustion and dizziness, memory loss... it can't be all nerves, can it? He tries not to think what it could all mean. In light of this, even the relief of being dry and clean isn't so comforting. And he still feels like he's been ran over, aching and sore all over... exactly the same as after that whole Floating Palace disaster. Except all the bruising, he thinks. That's new.

He takes particular care in tying his bowtie, so that the fingermarks on his neck can stay hidden. No one noticed, even before Wormwood gave him back his other tie, and the last thing he wants now is people starting to ask questions. But whoever carried him back must have seen the injuries... the sleepwalking hypothesis is still the top one out of the lot, he concludes, heaving a sigh.

Laboriously climbing the stairs to the workshop, he tries to prepare to see again the battlefield it's been reduced to. It must have reached apocalyptic levels by now, since Wormwood―armed with the Family Wand―took residence there, and undoubtedly proceeded to do his worst. As if anything could ever be worse than the raven's empty perch. And his cage. And the spot where they used to― _stop it_ , he snaps at himself, _just stop it_.

As soon as he walks past the red curtains at the top of the stairs, though, he has exactly a split-second to notice the lair is neater and cleaner than it's been in years.

“Finally! Took you long enough, Cedric,” Goodwyn the Great exclaims, his loud and gravelly voice causing him to clutch his chest and flinch. “What in the world were you doing? You know this portrait can't project me if you aren't in a ten feet range!”

Cedric pivots on his heels, following the sound of his father's voice. The movement is a bit too fast, and he has to grab the desk for balance.

“I had no idea, actually,” he says meekly, hunching over slightly as his father's broad frame imposes on his space. He clears his throat. “G-good to see you so soon, Father.”

“You would know, if you bothered to read _Properties of Magic Paintings_.” Father sighs haughtily, without reciprocating the greeting. Without Mother around to scold him for it, his tone always gets a bit colder, more disdainful. “But of course, I entrusted my library to you for nothing.”

The vast collection of rare books has been donated to the castle because it would never fit in the cottage at Mystic Meadows... but of course, he has to say it like it's some magnificent gift, bestowed upon Cedric out of pure benevolence. He used to do the same thing, coming home for Wassalia every year with hand-me-down books too advanced for Cedric's reading level as his only gift. Cedric sighs.

“So, how is Mother?” he asks in the uncomfortable silence.

“Hm, good, good. No melting hazards for a whole of two days now,” Father answers, his attention elsewhere, running his full beard between his middle and forefinger, staring intently at him.

A deep unease settles into Cedric's chest under the scrutiny of Father's ice-blue eyes, taking in his still-damp hair and second-best clothes. The jab feels like a slap on the wrist, as though he overstepped again some invisible line, and the man who held him and spoke highly of him just two days prior were nowhere to be found once again.

“I don't like having to wait hours and hours when I want to reach you, Cedric,” Father says. “We should put another painting downstairs.”

Cedric feels the blood drain from his face. “I-I think we're fine like this, Father,” he attempts, his voice lilting too high, nervously reaching a hand to unstick his wet fringe from his forehead. “I was just out of the tower a lot and... you know, I've built a dam for the village today and...”

Goodwyn is not listening to him. His usually ruddy face has paled, his eyes staring up at Cedric's forehead.

“This! What is this!” he yells, whiskers trembling under his wide nose. He shoots forward, grabbing Cedric by the shoulder to pull him down and push his hair back with his other hand, fingers stretching the skin around the light scratch he had almost forgot about. “How did you get it?!”

“ _Ow_ , Father, it's nothing―I just fell!” he yelps, incredulous.

When Goodwyn had held him, the sensation had lingered on him, and he could feel something cautiously unfurling in his chest, stretching towards that fleeting warmth like a frail crooked sprout out of a dried bean. Now, the brusque grip of Father's hands reminds him of a gardener uprooting weeds.

“Your mother,” Father gasps, his voice nothing short of panicked. “She must not know. You mustn't see her. Promise me, Cedric.”

“What? Why can't I see Mother?” he asks, tugging away from him, the icy unease seeping again into his middle.

There had been some moments, during the past year―the last one just the previous week, when the fake Amulet had vanished in his hand just when he thought he finally had it―when he had been tempted to call her and lay his head in her lap, like he used to do as a small child. _There_ , she used to say, running through his hair with her long nails, the smell of her a bit cloying with perfume, but _hers_. _Only Mummy can make you all better_.

“Promise!” Eyes wide and a bit bloodshot, Father hisses, “She... she must not _know_.”

“Know _what_?” Cedric almost-yells, his voice sharp in exasperation.

“That you _bled_ , son.” In a quick motion, Goodwyn pulls his wand from his sleeve and taps him lightly over the head. Cedric recognises the faintly metallic tinge of his father's favourite healing spell, and rubs the smooth skin left in place of the scratch. His father is still muttering under his breath, “It fell, how could it _fall_?”

“Father, it was only a little scratch, no reason to make a fuss about it,” he tries again, involuntarily apologetic. Self-consciously, he traces his fingers over his left forearm. “How could _what_ fall?”

Father is looking around the lair, ignoring him. He appears to be looking for something. _Oh no_ , Cedric thinks, stomach backflipping, trying to think of a lie to tell, _don't ask about the Wand, don't ask about the Wand._

“Where is the raven, Cedric?” Goodwyn asks suddenly.

“I sent it to polish―huh? You mean W-wormwood?” he says, his voice dying on the name. His arm, back, and throat sting unbearably for a moment, pins and needles combing over his nerves. He glances at the window, twitching, trying to gauge what time it might be, and to keep his focus. “Probably... probably out to get himself some food. His mid-afternoon snack, yes. But why?”

Father paces around, agitated, without answering. Cedric follows a few steps behind, waiting for an explanation that won't come anytime soon. He's never seen Father like this before.

“Alright,” Father says out of nowhere, his voice commanding, “I will attempt to redo it. Hold still.”

“Redo w―” Cedric freezes on the spot, questions and weak protest dying in a squeak.

A powerful spell is already loading in the air, prickling on his skin like static, as he watches his father wave his wand in an intricate motion, the magistral flick of his wrist above his head. He cannot recognize the pattern, but he can feel its vibration down to his very bones―his beakers, whole and aligned by height on the shelves and cabinets, clink together like wind chimes.

He cowers in fear. Goodwyn needn't say any magic words, but the silent spell resonates with the rumble of a thunderstorm, pulsing loud in Cedric's throat. Even though he bites the inside of his cheek not to scream, he can't help but raise his hands in front of his face when the engulfing black beam reaches him, nor the high wavering whimper that tears from his chest.

The spell never touches him. Through his fingers, he watches it bend around him, as if his body heat were a shield more powerful than his father's magic.

“ _Godmother's Gargoyles_ ,” Goodwyn hisses, so angrily Cedric fears he's thinking he has shielded himself on purpose. “It's _broken_. My charm is broken, and I cannot redo it!”

“W-w-what charm?” Cedric dares ask, his voice almost shrill, shaking from head to toe. “Did I... have a charm on me?”

“Yes, Son, can't you recognise a Protection Charm when you see one?” Goodwyn gestures, swatting his question like a fly. “You've had it on since you were six years old.”

Cedric blinks, a strange feeling making his chest grow tight. For a moment, just for a moment, he was led to think his shortcomings might have a magical cause, and instead... “A Protection Char―?”

“Can you remember the last time you got a scratch on you, Cedric?” his father asks, almost rhetorically. He starts pacing around again, pulling books from his shelves, taking a moment to mutter that at least he deigned to put the poor things in proper order, finally. “Do you know why is that?”

Through racing thoughts, Cedric tries to recall. He's had sets of armour fall on him without injury. He has fallen from his flying machines, slammed into candelabra, slipped and hit his head more times than he can count... only in the past year. Then, in the past years, he scalded his hands on a metal ladle, fell into a haystack from the back of a flying horse, was tripped countless times down the school stairs. And thinking back even more...

“ _Answer me_ , Cedric,” Father demands, in that way of his, saying his name all in harsh consonants after every question―and Cedric's train of thought is lost. Suddenly he's twelve again, and Hexley Hall isn't giving out gold stars for mediocrity, and his father is looking at him, staring him down from the length of his wide nose, and he feels again like his only place for him is with the other insects, dying crushed in Mother's mortar.

“I... I don't recall,” he squeaks, starting to panic. Daring to raise his voice a bit, clutching his scratched arm behind his back, he defies, “Maybe I'm stronger than you think, and that's why I've never been injured.”

Father stops in his tracks for a second, and _laughs._ A sort of bitter, single bark.

“Of course you're not. I put the Charm on you after you slipped into that crevice, out on the seastacks near the village,” Father says indifferently. “You scraped away half your skin, broke your arm, almost froze to death... and then you couldn't climb out, and just waited for the tide to come in and drown you. I had to cut a performance in the middle, and rush back to the village, because your mother sent a whole flock of those rock-ravens of hers to summon me. The King was very displeased.”

Cedric has missed half of what his father is saying. Old memories are rushing through his mind, as pages flipped too fast to read―the weight of the water, the maddening sting of salt on his limbs, the chorus of caws amplified through the rock to a deafening cacophony. His mouth as dry as after a mouthful of seawater, he has to fight his way out all over again.

His father doesn't notice anything, still talking, and he gesturing to the whole of him, in a brusque way that hurts him somehow, without laying a single blow. “A clumsy, sickly child like you... we had to keep you all in one piece, somehow,” he says. “I did the Charm myself, guaranteed to last a hundred years! But it broke the very evening I sent you home with the Family Wand.” He taps his own wand. A truly advanced sorcerer can always feel when his major spells are broken. “What did you _do_? Did you use the Wand to tamper with it? Or that Amulet you're obsessed with?”

“Father,” Cedric attempts, swallowing painfully, “I didn't even know―”

“The important thing is that your mother _does not know_ ,” Goodwyn interrupts him. He opens one of the books, landing on the right page on the first try. “I'll block her access to the portrait for now and―” Then he turns, and really looks at him for a long moment, making him squirm again. “Son... do you always look this much like a drowned rat, or have you already gotten yourself sick?”

Cedric, the fresh discovery of his lost invulnerability still ricocheting in his mind, can only answer in a weak murmur, “I'm alright.”

Father just shakes his head, and loads a physical scan on his wand. Cedric resigns himself to standing and shouldering it: even if he protests, Father won't listen. He wants to ask why mustn't he see his mother, but again, Father wouldn't listen. If only he, too, could grab him and yell, _from now on,_ _you'll keep your wand away from me!_ he would do it, he must admit.

“Cedric,” Goodwyn says, again in that hushed voice that is so unlike him, as he reads his son's health in the configuration of light dots on his wand, “you appear to be injured—were you in a scuffle? And Son, you've been walking around on a slipped disk for a whole day. What happened here?”

“Have I? Well, you did say I've always been clumsy,” Cedric says, not bothering to control the slight hysterical lilt in his voice. He places his hands on his lower back, and makes to push his shoulder-blades together. “I'll just pop it back in and―”

“No no _no_ , you'll make it worse!” Goodwyn, a glimpse of real concern in his eyes, raises a hand to stop him. “Just―hold still, Son.”

This time, the metallic taste of the healing spell is strong enough to make him gag, and he feels a shock down to his fingertips as his back snaps back into alignment.

Grabbing the edge of the table and cringing, he whimpers, “Why, thank you, Father.” In a moment, though, it's like the weight of an anchor has been taken off his shoulders. He stretches, his mind in a brief haze of relief. “Much better now.”

“It's not all,” Father says gravely. “Your energies have been depleted so severely, it put you at great risk... nearly in mortal danger!” With a flick of his wand, he summons one of the armchairs stored downstairs, and pushes him on it. “You must rest, immediately. Have you lost consciousness in the past two days?”

“I... just now, in fact,” Cedric admits, shifting uncomfortably in the cushioned seat. “But as I was saying, I was building this dam and I couldn't just leave it―wait, did you say I almost died? By using my energy for magic?”

“No, no, you cannot exhaust your own energy like that, that's not how it works. There must be _something_... hold still,” Father says, loading yet another type of scan. “There it is! Just like I suspected. There is a link system, a stream of energy going from you to... a few other entities, at least three. I cannot see what they are or where... Son, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“Nothing!” Cedric recoils, arms wide in helpless exasperation. “Father, I haven't done a―”

“Your levels are still _terribly_ low,” Goodwyn interrupts him. How were you even on your feet, I wonder?”

Cedric wonders himself. It would explain why his spells have been failing so much these days... more than usual. And the weariness that seems to cling to him. But... aside from Wormwood's transformation, nothing new happened―

“Son, I'm afraid you have a _leech_.”

* * *

 

“ _Wishing Well_ ,” Wormwood booms, slamming both his hands on the smooth stone edge. “You lying, fiendish abomination, what have you _done_?!”

He ran like a madman, down the stairs, out the backdoor, behind the castle and into the dried-up gardens. Finding his way proved difficult, because the fog now engulfs the maze and the hedges, but he followed his senses and ran forth, until he had kicked the broken gate open and marched into the clearing as though he had three armies behind him, ready to back up his demands.

The serene metal face, unfazed, just blinks politely at him. “I have granted you three wishes, as it is my purpose―”

“ _M_ _urdering_ Cedric was _not_ in my wishes!” Wormwood howls, breathing still ragged like that of a wolf after a chase, his fist coming down on the cold metal with a knell-like sound.

“All that ambition you showed me... where is it now, Your Majesty?” the Well murmurs.

Its voice and cadence sound different, Wormwood notes distantly. The high monotone is now less slow and mechanical, closer to natural speech. Closer to a human voice. The raven's skin crawls.

“For wishes of such magnitude, one would think a single human life to be a very small price. And you were so lucky as to stumble upon such an abundant supply of magical energy!” the Well says, with something akin to a laugh. “Truly, when you fed the fruits of your wishes to the little sorcerer, I thought your plan to be most well conceived.”

“The blackberries,” Wormwood gasps. Just like he feared. Of course... the following morning, Cedric was already showing signs of being unwell. Through the fruits, the Well has channeled his energy into Wormwood. _That's why he collapsed, this is what I've done_ ―“No, no, you are correlating events that are not―this was never my plan. I never wanted this.”

“Oh, but you did. You _made_ them correlate,” the Well murmurs suavely. Something rustles in the clearing, but there is no wind, and almost no leaves to rustle. “You wanted destruction, and fear, and power. You wanted this kingdom at your feet. You wanted _results_.”

“Not at this price!” Wormwood yells, to make himself louder than the Well and the words it keeps twisting. “I―this conquer was taking _ages_ , I just wanted to live long enough to see it―to use magic, I just wanted to get something _done_.”

He lowers his gaze, to the dead grass under his feet, fists trembling in fury and anguish. Desperate, he demands, “I want to go back. I want my wishes undone!”

“You did bring me a _very_ handsome payment. I hadn't had such a surge of power in years,” the Well concedes, with a hint of mockery. Wormwood clutches the stolen Wand in his sleeve. “But still, the rules are rules, and you are all out of wishes, raven-child.”

Something slithers near Wormwood's foot, brushing his ankle. He hops away in alarm, but he hears it come after him again, invisible in the dense mist. He kicks blindly at it, stomping hard into the ground. Something squelches between his toes, like the mud on the village levees, and the water-moss in the forest meander. When he looks down, heart in his throat, he sees a vivid green vine heavy with crushes fruit, splattering his toes in purplish red.

“What is this―?” he snarls. A few more vines slide on the ground, forcing him to back away. “The bramble I made... why is it moving?!”

“After it had a taste of that magic, it cannot bear to be confined here any longer,” the Well says sweetly, voice curling at the edges with a slightly distorted sound. “It wants _more_.”

“C-cedric's magic?” Wormwood asks, horrified, hands clenched into fists. “What does it mean, it wants more?”

“It means, dear Wormwood,” the Well wheedles, calling him by his name for the first time, “that if you bring the little sorcerer to me, I shall share with you a boundless supply of magic energy, to use as you please.”

Wormwood doesn't stay to hear the rest. Cold with dread, the raven bolts, vines slithering under his running steps, ready to coil and grab.

They don't stop snapping at his ankles until he's out of the maze, and almost at the rose garden.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally a creep, a Wormwood story. And remember kids, never bridal carry someone with back injuries. Guest star, Goodwyn the Great.


	9. Like the Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which being Unofficial Royal Sorcerer is hard work, and then rabbits come in and give you /the talk./

 

Quiet and unfrequented, the Royal Library makes for the perfect hiding spot.

Books still fit strangely in Wormwood's hands, the grain of paper still new under the sensitive pads of his fingers. But the rustle of turned pages, and the familiar smell of book-dust are like a calming lull, slowly easing away the near-panic of his run back from the garden.

Maybe he'll just spend the night here, he considers, as he has no interest in using the room lent to him. When the grey afternoon bleeds into evening, he pilfers a lantern for the tucked-away table he has claimed as territory for the time being. At least, he decides, he'll stay until he has understood what sort of abomination he ended up creating.

Hoping to stumble onto some overlooked clue, and thus find the connection he's missing, he mentally reorganises what he knows one more time. The Wishing Well is using its speech a lot differently than it should; only the Wand he paid it with can be the source of such influx of power. But that doesn't explain the Wand's change of colour...

Then, the blackberry, enchanted perennial climber born of Wormwood's flight feather, is instead feeding off the whole island to keep producing fruit as the wisher asked. Through this fruit, the Well was able to somehow establish a link, allowing the raven to access Cedric's core and use magic.

 _Me, leeching off energy like some dirty parasite, what a disgrace_ , he bemoans, the true extent of his responsibility still escaping him in part, something too vast to truly comprehend. _This cannot do. I must fix it, no matter what._

Wormwood knows he's a very fast reader, with an excellent memory: if the information is in this library, he will find it, even if he has to take the King on his word and stay cooped up there for a month. After all, he reasons, texts on castle and kingdom history are more likely to be here than in Goodwyn's collection, where the focus is more on the theoretical and applied side of magic than the historical one. And yet, as the oil in his lantern slowly burns down and books stack up around him in looming towers, he starts to doubt his logic.

There is no mention of the Wishing Well _anywhere_. Aside from the Enchancian Anthem, of course... but something tells him the Anthem doesn't refer to this particular well. And even there, there's no follow up: not a word in _History of Enchancia_ , barely anything in the chapter of _Modern Artefacts and Their Uses_ that deals with semi-sentient magical objects... but nothing about a well with the kind of almighty power this one seems to have. The Well hidden away in the back gardens must be a very unique object, either too old or too recent to be in recorded history. _It must have been built by someone very powerful, and very dangerous_ , Wormwood thinks. _Someone very good at keeping secrets._

The questions dear to Wormwood are still all open. Why would the Well promise him magical autonomy if he brings Cedric to it? What are its intentions with him? Just how big is the damn bramble going to grow? _What have I done, why have I been so stupid―_ but he cannot give in to self-commiseration. He must keep looking.

For the past two hours, a nagging feeling has been distracting him, like an unfinished thought in the back of his mind, a siren song calling him back to the tower. He has left Cedric to his devices without explanation, if he woke up in the meantime he'll have so many questions...

“Which is why I should go back with _answers_ ,” he mutters to himself, faking resolution. “If only there were any in this wretched library. It's not like I'm avoiding him or anything.”

“Who you avoiding, birdbreath?” a voice suddenly calls, making him jump and knock over one of the book piles.

He swears at the smirking rabbit like he only did that one time he locked him in his cage and stole the counter-spellbook.

Clover just laughs. “Yo, Sofia sent me to give you this. She's out at derby practice until dinnertime, but she says _hi_.”

Wormwood accepts the little Crocus pouch with a grunt in place of thanks.

In all the agitation that followed, he had almost forgotten about their morning adventure. In the end, he couldn't even _attempt_ to start his apology—not with Cedric as closed off and hostile as he was during their time together. He'd like to think it was because Roland was there... but deep down he knows it's him, he's the reason. And Cedric doesn't even know the whole extent of what his action have caused... this entire thing just got completely out of hand, how is a flower supposed to explain that? He pockets the Crocus, and sighs into the useless book in his free hand.

“Man, you look tense,” the rabbit comments, lounging on a discarded volume. “Whatcha readin', anyway?”

“A fine page of _none of your damn business_ ,” Wormwood clips, turning a page with a sharp flick of his wrist. His index nail goes through the corner like a knife in butter. “ _Drat_.”

“Right, right. None of my business but... I was thinking 'bout that thing you said, not having roosted for a long time, and that whole deal? I didn't want to say in front of Sofia, but other ravens I know tell a helluva different story.”

“What other ravens?” Wormwood snaps, finally distracted. “This area is mine, no one else comes here.”

“Oh man, are you for real?” Clover snorts. “Okay seriously, your turf stuff is really weird. I know some others who live in pairs, groups, big families and whatnot... they're like, really chill. Alright like, they don't rebound easily, I've been told, but nobody else sees the... _friendship_ matter the way you do. Who taught you that stuff? Are your parents the same as you?”

Wormwood mutters, “Nobody taught me. I do my own research.”

He almost said _I never met my parents_ , and bared himself to mockery. But why should he believe this rabbit, now? The books say differently, and books aren't supposed to lie. Are they?

The rabbit is looking at him, something that is half a smile and half a cringe on his furry face. “Like, on books? Written by humans?” Clover asks slowly, patting the volume under him. “Never talked to another raven?”

“Evidently.” Wormwood huffs, sullen. “Why? Do you think I have any use for your pity or something?”

“Nah, Sofia told me you saved her from falling off the mountain,” Clover says, a serious look in his eyes. “So... let's say I owe you one, and I come to you bringing a word of advice.”

“Keep it,” Wormwood rebuts, holding up a hand to Clover's pink nose before he can lean in. “If she hadn't come with me she wouldn't have been in danger in the first place. Don't do me favours, rabbit, I do not need or want any.”

Clover drags in a groaning sigh. “Whatever, pal, bottom line is: one, some things you can't learn on books, and two, your feathers are gonna fall out from stress if you don't get your master to cuddle you more.”

“ _Cuddle_ m―” Wormwood almost chokes on his own saliva. A hundred retorts rise and fall like a tide in his mind, and in the end he can just squeak out, “He―is not my _master_.”

“Yeah, whatever you two interspecies buddies call each other, no judgement,” the rabbit says, paws up. “We are still pack—flock animals, aren't we? And like it or not, we are domesticated. Imprinted, paired, or whatever you want to call it. When a single human is your whole... everything, you have to make do, right? And a tummy-rub never killed anyone. At least, not anyone I know.”

The raven sputters. “A _what_ ―look, rabbit,” he manages, rubbing two knuckles into his left temple, “our one-time collaboration is way too shaky ground for you to get this chummy, I'm warning you.”

“That's cold, after I let you put your claws on my ass,” Clover says in mock-offence. “Good times, though. We ain't half-bad, as a team.”

Wormwood wonders if sometimes Clover forgets to watch his language around the Princess, and if one day she'll belt out a swearword right in the middle of a family dinner. _But the rabbit taught me!_ Oh, the faces they'd all make.

“Hm. With the Princess mediating, perhaps,” Wormwood concedes.

No matter how hard he tries to keep them still, round them all up, and push them out—the rabbit's words have already nestled in his thoughts. To think of contact as something fundamental, a need they all have, something that others simply find in their families or in their human companions without even thinking about it...

"What you advise, anyway,” he mutters defensively, “is not much of a raven thing."

“To be honest, seems to me you know jack shit about raven things,” Clover says bluntly, with a shrug. “So you can just do whatever you feel like, as long as you ask nicely and listen, I guess? And it's good for the humans too. We cabbage-chewers gotta be careful who we chill with, but a bird of prey like you, what's to fear? I mean, you're all over the guy anyway, aren't you?”

Wormwood scoffs. Even in his raven form, he would rarely concede himself to hold Cedric's fingers in the grip of his beak, not to bite them, but just to feel the pressure, like another beak holding his. And the solace of Cedric's hands around him...

“We are scavengers, actually,” Wormwood retorts, piqued, since it's the only part of the rabbit's speech that seemed to make sense. “I just never... I don't think he would―I just... we've never been apart before, that's all. I miss my... just, someone I was used to... not missing.”

“ _Sure_ ,” Clover cuts through his coil of words, lengthening the vowel with insinuation. “You miss him like the air you breathe? Like sunshine in this fucked up weather? Like―”

“Like the skies I used to roam.”

A pause. The raven frowns, and Clover just looks at him, and it takes him a moment to realize he spoke. He scratches into his elongated brow with a claw-tip, wondering how this keeps happening. It does make sense, in a way: flying is also something that he always took for granted, just another part of himself. The sharpness of his bill, the reflexive clench of his talons, the wind under his wings. The sorcerer's voice pacing his days. He daren't look at the rabbit's face for a moment.

“Deep, man. Was that yours? Is it a song?” Clover says, clapping his front paws. “Anyway, case in point: I was gonna go with a food reference, but... well, like, the stuff you feel... it doesn't seem like it stops at friendship, if you catch my drift. Or even at that pairing-bond stuff you mentioned.”

Wormwood slaps his book shut, giving up on it. “I shall admit, furball, I have _no_ idea what you're talking about.”

“Bro,” the rabbit whistles. “No offense, but no wonder y'all look so pissed off all the time. Trust me, you should ask how it all works.”

“Ask who?” Wormwood scoffs The list of humans he knows isn't that long. “I'm not that chummy with the King yet.”

Actually, King Roland would probably tell him, hellbent on teaching good values as he is, if he worded the question academically enough. The image is exhilarating.

“Nah, to the magic man himself, of course. Rumour has it he's got more game than he lets on. Speaking of being chummy with the King, word in the stables' that some twenty years ago―” But the rabbit suddenly perks in the direction of the door. "Gotta go, sounds like someone's looking for you.”

And in a blink, he's gone.

“Twenty years ago _what_?” Wormwood asks to the empty library. It's amazing, some part of him notes, that such a fat rabbit can move so quickly.

 _I don't have time for this_ , he thinks angrily, re-opening _Mysteries of Enchancia, A Review._ But he can barely make out the words on the page through all the thoughts in his head. What are these rumours the rabbit heard about? What happened twenty years ago? _Why is there nothing in this damn library?_

“Ah, you're here. How fortunate,” says a prim voice from the corridor; Wormwood's line of thought is snapped once again.

“Indeed,” he forces himself to answer, without hurling the book at the Steward.

“Your sudden disappearance has caused quite the embarrassment down at the village, Corax,” Baileywick says, adjusting his glasses to regard him with the sternness of a kindergarten teacher.

Wormwood blinks up at him, hoping his expression alone can convey the barely contained annoyance in his soul.

“My... colleague collapsed, I'm sure you have noticed,” Wormwood replies, a bit through his teeth. “I just brought him back to the castle, so he could rest.”

“Regardless, an explanation would be appreciated, next time. The King was very worried.”

Wormwood holds back a sneer. _Sure, next time one of us almost hops the twig, I'll make sure to waste time informing you of something right there under your nose._ And since when the King worries about Cedric's health? They were never _friends_ or anything, not even as kids. Quite the opposite. And as adults, there is only enmity and scorn between them. Were they _chummy_ , once, over two decades ago, is that what the rabbit heard?

 _Impossible_ , he thinks, _I was there. I would have known._ Firmly, he shoves the thought back where it came from. Since when can Clover be trusted, anyway? But if it ever came out he was right about the ravens...

“Is there something you require of me?” Wormwood asks, mostly to swat away his own thoughts. Whatever it is, hopefully he'll be able to get it over with quickly.

“Yes, actually. Do you happen to have some Grow-Fast Powder on hand?” Baileywick asks. The raven blinks at him.

The man drones on at his stunned silence, explaining how for this year's Autumnal Equinox feast, the King would like to start a tradition of inviting the villagers and nobility alike to the palace, as they do for the Villagers' Ball they host every spring.

“But alas, the dreadful weather we are having has managed to ruin the whole village's Community Garden, not to mention the castle's private plots. Even what we had in the greenhouse! The situation is a little critical at the moment. We would need that fertiliser powder Cedric used last year, possibly by tomorrow morning.”

Wormwood knows exactly what the man is talking about: they call it a _powder_ , but it's actually a potion, modified to sublimate into particles for easier handling and carrying, in a quite convoluted and painstaking process. But they want it done by _tomorrow morning_ , and he's not quite sure it could be finished in time even starting right this instant.

“One doesn't _happen_ tohave Grow-Fast powder _on hand_. It is made, and it takes a great deal of time and skill,” he tells the man. All these people just demand things, as though they had no idea the actual effort they require. _They probably don't_ , he realises. “Isn't this competence of the Royal Sorcerer?”

“It has been elected to seek you out, since you've been so kind as to make yourself available.” From Baileywick's wording, Wormwood is sure it was the King's idea. So much for worrying about Cedric, the prat. “Also, Cedric's door is locked, and we don't have all night to wait out his tantrums.”

Wormwood narrows his eyes. “Magic is already costly in normal conditions, and even more so when a sorcerer is unwell,” he hisses. “He has strained himself to build that dam of yours.”

“Oh, we were labouring under the assumption that _you_ had built the dam. Cedric is not usually so thorough,” Baileywick says with polite surprise. A stiff shrug, and a new watch-checking. “Anyway, it just means that he did his job, for once. If we all got a day off every time we feel a little faint, this kingdom wouldn't run very smoothly, now, would it?”

A spark of anger goes off in his stomach at the injustice. It is a complex world, this one humans inhabit. Full of rules that nobody bothered to write down, impossible to detect from outside and seemingly put there just to trip people up. And the way this world treats Cedric, it makes him _furious_. The King going to the new sorcerer for a potion, when his very own Royal Sorcerer has never failed to deliver one that worked as intended... with one single, tragic exception, alright, but should that hang over Cedric's head all his life?

The human world is just as unfair as the animal world, Wormwood can conclude. And at least, the animal world doesn't take pride in making itself upholder of all law and righteousness. _But what do I know_ , he thinks. _Turns out a rabbit had to come and enlighten me about my own species._

“Also, I'll have you know that dinner will be served in half an hour,” Baileywick adds, with a slyness so subtle, it would escape most. He knows very well Wormwood won't be able to attend, but invites him anyway, just to put on a show. Wormwood glances at the window, taking in the darkening sky outside.

“I am afraid I will have to pass,” he declines, keeping up the polite farce that seems to be the whole of a human's life. As he raises a look of challenge to the Steward's even gaze, his nails score the underside of the table. “If the powder is needed by tomorrow morning, I should start immediately.”

Only after the Steward has cheered― _Wonderful! I'll inform the King_ ―and left, it occurs to him that he, actually, has never brewed a potion in his entire life.

* * *

 

Still in her riding clothes, Sofia puts away the red blanket neatly folded on the window-seat. No one has been in her room all day, as requested. She heaves a sigh of relief, but it ends in a hiss when she bends at the waist.

In her right hip throbs a dull ache, her leg dragging with a bit of a limp: during practice, she steered Minimus the wrong way into the aggressive wind, and it caught his wing wrong and caused him to jerk and throw her—all this, Minimus explained in a panic as she lay groaning in a haystack.

The practice cushions scattered all over the derby field are enchanted to catch any falling bodies near them, but she was completely out of range. Out of pure luck, they were overflying a field, and the haystack softened most of her landing. Sir Gillium made her walk it off and get right back in the saddle, but he did look a bit concerned. She wonders if she should get it checked. _It's probably fine_ , Sofia tells herself, gingerly rubbing the sore spots.

Since she can't talk about the adventure on Mist Bowl Mountain, she'd like to at least tell this small adventure to someone... but Dad worries about every scratch, and her mom, thinking it's nothing to worry about, would tell him anyway. She sighs. She could tell Clover, if he comes back for his goodnight cuddle. Or Mr. Cedric tomorrow, if he's in the mood to listen. And Wormwood, why not. He made such a funny expression when he scolded her for being reckless, just the same Mr. Cedric still makes when she steps too close to his potion cabinet.

Sofia wasn't able to meet up with them after they left for the village. _I'm sure it went fine_ , she thinks, sounding unconvinced even in her own head. None of her animal friends has come to update her yet, either, which is a bit frustrating. _I'll have news soon. I shouldn't worry._

As she vigorously brushes hay from her hair, something out of the corner of her eye catches her attention. The yellow crystal ball, still on the puppet cart, is glowing intermittently.

“What's up with you, crystal ball?” she asks, only half to the object, nearing it and picking it up. When her hand touches it, the glow becomes permanent. “Hm, that's funny.”

A knock on the door startles her, almost making her drop the sphere. Instinctively, she hides it behind the little teal curtain. “Come in!”

“Sofia,” the King greets, with a smile. As he walks nearer, the smile stiffens. “Sweetie, why is there hay in your hair?”

“Hi, Dad,” she greets back, between pleased and surprised. On a whim, she decides to tell him, and see if he has been able to allay his worries. “Oh, I just fell into a haystack.”

Dad blinks down at her, brow growing tense. Seems he wasn't.

“From your horse...?” he says, in a mildly strangled voice. He makes to help her pluck the hay away, but then hesitates, and leaves it to her to do herself. His eyes have taken a concerned cast. “A haystack, hm? Sofia, don't you think derby getting a bit too dangerous?”

“Not at all,” she says. “Minimus and I are both okay. Our team lost the practice game, though.”

“But does it happen often?” the King insists. “I mean falling, not losing the game.”

Sofia shrugs. “Not that often. But everyone falls sometimes. You told me you also used to fall a lot, didn't you?”

“I... did, yes,” Dad says, a shadow over his eyes. “But listen, no more flying unsupervised like you did this morning, alright? Especially in this weather. I don't want you getting hurt.”

“I'll be careful,” Sofia promises, vague. Her sore hip gives her a pang, as if punishing her for hiding it. Dad's expression remains a bit more serious than what she'd like. “... is everything okay, Dad?”

The question seems to startle him. “Hm? Yes. I just... have an odd feeling lately,” he finally admits.

Sofia has always been able to tell when adults lie. When her mother used to smile all through Father's day, years ago, and tell her everything was fine, to ignore the pitiful glances of the other villagers, to ignore the red in her eyes. When Oona's mother made an effort to be courteous, even though Sofia could tell she wanted her untrustworthy human face and her mysterious shape-shifting mermaid tail out of her Cove, away from her daughter, immediately. When, just the previous night, Mr. Cedric was trying so hard to hide how hurt he was, looking so lost and scared and heartbroken.

If Dad says he has an odd feeling, she can tell it means he has a _bad_ feeling. She never liked people putting up a façade for her sake, thinking a young child like her won't see through it. Yet everyone keeps doing it, like a big game they all need to play at all times.

“Did everything go alright in the village?” she probes, weighting out the possible causes of worry, and going for the most recent.

Dad nods. “At least that problem is fixed, albeit...” and he halts, and again she can sense he's not telling her something. “This Corax fellow... you made friends very fast, right? I know he looks a bit odd, but does he seem like an alright guy to you?”

Taken aback, Sofia searches for a way around the subject. “Uhm, he is really determined,” she starts. “And very loyal, and actually really funny―once you get to know him. Good reflexes, he'd be great at derby if you ask me... but why are you asking me?”

“Because I trust your judgement, Sofia,” the King says with a brief smile, and Sofia's heart gives a surprised, joyful leap. “Corax seems indeed a very capable sorcerer, and I wanted to ask him to stay with us for a while, if he's not otherwise engaged. Although, I don't want to offer our hospitality to another Sascha, you see. That's why I need your advice.”

Sofia takes a moment to consider the options. This is good news, in a way. It means Wormwood and Mr. Cedric have more time to sort their matters out, and don't need to rush it. On the other hand, will Wormwood have to live behind his fake name forever? And, when she recalls how the possibility of being replaced seemed to worry Mr. Cedric so much, Dad's words strike a very bad cord. But, however she may phrase the question, it shows that she knows too much.

“I do like him, and I'd be happy if he stayed with us,” she says evenly, after a pause. “But I think you should discuss this with Mr. Cedric too, to see if it's alright with him. He could think that you think he's not enough.”

He gives her a look of mild surprise. She has an inkling that consulting Mr. Cedric didn't exactly cross his mind.

“They seem to get along fine, no problems working together,” Dad says, with a shrug. “Seem kinda chummy, actually. And I don't think Cedric cares much about what I think of him, anyway.”

Sofia bites her lip. It's good to hear that they are on speaking terms: they must have talked, then, and the advice she has given Wormwood proved effective. Even if her hip is still sore from the fall, the upsetting afternoon she had seems a shade lighter now. And yet.

“No, Dad, what he does is really important to Mr. Cedric,” she says cautiously. “He does his best everyday! He wants nothing more than to do a good job for you.”

This time, Dad has a bit of a strange reaction to her words. He clears his throat, and suddenly looks like he's been walking in the sun for some time.

“Has a funny way to show it, then,” he mutters.

Sofia deduces something happened down in the village, that made the King come back with his opinion of Wormwood intact, and his opinion of Mr. Cedric lower than ever. There is the possibility that in his weakened state, Mr. Cedric wasn't able to do what they required of him. Her chest gives a pang of worry.

A bit anxiously, she insists, “But Dad, he's not really feeling well today. If you only gave him a chance...”

“There's no one else in this castle I have given more chances to, Sofia,” he says. “But it's a complicated matter, I don't expect you to―”

“But weren't you friends, when you were my age?” she presses, and Dad looks stunned for a long moment. “Baileywick told me. That you were always running about and making trouble, that you took riding and dance lessons together at Royal Prep, and he'd help with the Science Fair every year.”

“Wouldn't help me win for sure,” Dad mutters under his breath. His eyes have a strange, distant cast, like he's not sure if the memories are fond or sad. “It's true, of course. We grew up together and all... but when people grow up, you see, some friendships just... grow apart. And if they're still stuck under the same roof, like it or not, they must learn to put those old matters aside. And it doesn't mean the friendship has a way to come back.”

His words, delivered quietly and evenly as always, give Sofia a feeling of unsteadiness, of ties and impossibility, of change coming too fast to adapt. In her experience, if one gives it time, and space, end effort, friendship always finds a way to come back. But she has a feeling Dad and Mr. Cedric have given it nothing but contempt.

“So, what happened to this friendship?” she inquires.

“People make... choices, and they change. Sometimes, when the worst happens, life shows just how different they are.” Sofia squints at his vagueness, and he heaves a sigh, looking outside into the cloudy sky. “It's very complicated, Sofia. One day you'll understand.”

“Not if no one tells me,” Sofia observes, splaying her arms. But Dad hasn't heard her, lost in thought.

Then, talking like he's thinking out loud, he says, “Something Corax said got me thinking... we've been lucky, but with Cedric's fame... if we were ever under attack, we would be in serious trouble...”

She blinks. Dad never talks about these matters with her, or with Amber and James either. He thinks they're not old enough, she guesses, not ready.

“Are we... expecting trouble?” she asks again, a bit more directly.

“I just have a feeling, that's all,” Dad dodges again. He gets up, straightening his jacket. “Thank you for your advice, Sofia. Come to dinner as soon as you're changed, alright? We'll be up very early tomorrow morning, to get everything ready in time. If we want this Equinox feast to happen, a very busy day awaits us.”

It is Sofia's turn to heave a sigh. “Okay, Dad.”

When his steps have faded out down the corridor, she checks back on the crystal ball. The glow has dimmed and disappeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consult the 9 year old for all important decisions.


	10. The Trouble You Brew - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the importance of the King's favour is highly overestimated.

“You've got some _nerve_ ,” Cedric hisses through the sliver of open door. Indignation vibrates in his tired voice, the sound of it an almost surreal ring. “Coming to me for _help_ after all you've done.”

Wormwood angles his head to take a better look at him. “ _Neptune's Nettles_ , you look _awful_ ,” he ends up blurting out.

He represses the urge to kick himself in the shin. It is yet another encounter that plays out very differently than what Wormwood envisioned.

Cedric is on his feet, which is a relief... but that's about it. He has deep bluish marks under his eyes, and the skin of his face looks dry and sallow, like a man who's seen no sleep in weeks. Cedric's shifty eyes narrow at him, chapped mouth pulling down into a dark, stiff frown.

“Good _night_ ,” he spits, and slams the door in his face.

Wormwood holds back from banging a fist on it. Instead, he clears his throat, spying the line of light filtering under the door, interrupted by Cedric's shadow. He's probably standing with his shoulders against it now, nose up in outrage.

“The feast is tomorrow night,” he tries. “There is little time, but now we have the chance to―”

A loud, derisive _hah!_ reaches him from behind the door. “ _We_? There is no _we,_ ” Cedric scoffs. “I'm not doing anyone's homework. If _you_ have been asked to do it, then _you_ find a way to do it.” Then, slyer, “I am sure you can manage, seeing how _gifted_ you found yourself to be, _Mr. Corax_.”

Wormwood blinks. He realizes he's been staring down at the handle for a while, but he doubts he could look Cedric in the eye even if the door weren't in the way. Right then, he keenly feels that all of this is for nothing, that he's just been deluding himself, trying to win over a man who has never forgiven in his life. Wormwood could present him with the Crown, the Amulet, and the restored Family Wand on a silver platter, and it wouldn't change anything.

“The... King wants both of us to work on it,” he lies, in a last ditch effort. He waits for the results with bated breath.

For a moment, it seems like it might work: there is a twitch in the shadow, like the mention of Roland were a breath of wind through still leaves. Wormwood had thought nothing of the effect of the King's name and title on Cedric for so long, even found it a bit amusing. And now...

“He does? But after―wait.” In his mind's eye, Wormwood can picture Cedric squinting again, distrusting. In a tone filled with loathing, the sorcerer snarls, “You're tricking me _again_. I don't believe you.”

 _Be honest_ , Sofia would tell him. _Just say how you feel_. He inhales deeply.

“That's right, they asked _me_ to do it,” he snaps instead, taking a step forward, closer to the wooden barrier. _That's not being honest_ , scolds the voice of his imaginary Sofia. _I never said I was honest_ , he thinks defensively. Or nice. Or even remotely good at this. “They don't think you have what it takes.”

Immediately, he realises it didn't come out as planned. He wanted to poke Cedric's competitive spirit awake, so he'll rise up to the challenge; instead, he just boasted about his own untarnished reputation. And that poor competitive spirit is prone to crumbling at the first push when Cedric's morale is too low. He should know.

“Well, that has never been news, has it?” Cedric clips, glacial. Wormwood slaps a hand over his face. “Now, I'm no expert, but _not_ taking credit for my work might just help, don't you think?”

Defensive, voice muffled against his own palm, he starts, “I didn't take credit―”

“You were showing off, trying to prove you're better than me!” Cedric yells through the door, hitting it on his side, his voice cracking. _Oh no, not again_ , Wormwood thinks. “Well, congratulations! Now everyone thinks you are _so_ great! In a single day, you've taken away all that bit of recognition it took me a _year_ to accumulate―and now you expect me to believe a word out of your lying mouth! You've got some _nerve_ , I tell you!”

Wormwood groans in frustration. “Fine! Don't believe me, then!” Disregarding all other matters for the moment, he just goes back to the point at hand. “But I need to use the laboratory, at least!”

“Get your own!” Cedric shouts back in indignation. This time, Wormwood does bang a fist on the door.

He regrets it immediately. For once, it hurts. Nails into palm, splinters from the wood, no soft ribbon to protect his hand this time. And he can see in the line of light how the sudden noise has caused Cedric to step away.

He could break down the door, if he wanted: the hinges are old and rusty. But once in, what next? _Do whatever you feel like_ , Clover said. He could bully Cedric into helping him... probably. And then what? He always believed intimidation to be part of his nature, essential to his survival as the food he ate. He leans his forehead into the door, wondering what does he know about his nature, at this point.

In hindsight―a half-formed thought hiding in the back of his mind, as if it were too afraid and unprepared to come forth―he feels like his first instance of violence hasn't been all the way deliberate. What came over him in that moment, that anger like Fiendfyre, and the blind hate and disgust that pushed him to destroy all that made their life theirs... it doesn't much feel like part of him. He can't quite recall how his emotions used to work when he was a raven; they were much more clear-cut, he thinks, simpler to deal with. He lived in a world free of consequences, free of remorse.

And now, every time he thinks of Cedric's rucked up undershirt, his guts twist into knots. Now that he knows what is at stake, that he is used to the strengths and limits of his form, could he even bear to use force again to achieve the results he wants? Could he grab Cedric by the throat and leave blue stains and red welts on his skin, frighten him as he did before?

 _I couldn't_ , he thinks helplessly, sickened at the mere idea, truncated nails pressed to his mouth. The thought of having done it once is already too much. He wants anything but this for them, _anything_ but this miserable fear game he started with his foolish actions.

Wormwood takes a deep, steadying breath. Cedric's shadow hasn't left the door.

“You can take back the recognition,” he says, clenching his fist in unseen intensity, but not raising his voice. “Don't you see? This is a great chance! You can show them all what you are capable of. I was wrong, when I said you were unneeded here... I really―the kingdom really needs help now, and no one but you can answer the call.”

Judging from the dead silence, Cedric doesn't seem inclined to answer the call. Wormwood rubs distractedly at the pinpricks of cold sweat on his nape, exhaling. He won't have to sing, will he...? Now, if a song would _just_ come to him like it does for everybody else, he thinks in annoyance, then of course he would use it. But nothing ever came to him... he's a raven, not a songbird, after all. But if that's what it takes...

Then, as he is already mentally preparing himself, with an underwhelming click, the door opens.

He listens to the deadbolt's clang and watches the handle lower, in a dreamlike stupor. Cedric lifts his gaze from the floor and meets his eye―and the air seems to fill his human lungs all the way for the very first time, and for a moment he is overcome with the need to throw himself in Cedric's lap, warm folds of purple fabric around him, forehead to belt, and not leave the spot for a week straight.

“And _why_ would you be following King Roland's orders, if I may?” Cedric asks begrudgingly. The two feet distance between them feels again like a rampart of hostility. “Shouldn't you be already implementing your grand plan to take over?”

“Maintaining his favour is convenient, for now,” Wormwood lies, his voice too thick, almost breathless. “So I can study him, and gain his trust. Practical.”

Cedric blinks. “Hm, good point,” he concedes. His fingers grip the door, knuckles tense through the glove. “But if you weren't trying to take the credit, why did they all cheer for you?”

“Because we were casting at the same time, and these people have the observational skills of newborn mutts,” Wormwood rattles off. “And I wasn't showing off, either.”

“But then what―”

“I was just fanning the fog away, so you could work!” he blurts out, anxious to finally explain himself. “And so they would shut up.”

Cedric stares, unmoving. “You... you were?” The raven gives a vigorous nod. Cedric clears his throat, propping a fist on his hip. As though he had to take back the bit of softness he let in his voice, as abrasive and unpleasant as possible, he clips, “Either way, even if I wanted to—which I don't—I couldn't help you. The ingredients need restocking.”

“I've got it covered,” Wormwood says, almost tripping over himself to show him the fold of his cloak, full of toadstools and roots and nipped herbs. “Positively ransacked the garden.”

But Cedric barely glances, and gives a scoff. “Hm. A measly loot if I've ever seen one.”

“This is all that was there,” the raven rebuts, piqued. Just stepping into the gardens gave him the chills, almost getting lost in the mist and looking over his shoulder the whole time, leaping at every rustle like stalked prey.

“Yes, well,” Cedric says, in forced derisiveness, grasping at straws, “if you _really_ wanted to pull this off, you would _at least_ have gotten Hocus Crocus.”

Wormwood deflates. “I... did, actually.”

He pulls out the pouch, the lame reveal almost a physical ache. He lets Cedric snatch it from his open palm, sighing, in his mouth the sour taste of disappointment. This really isn't going as planned.

But when Cedric opens it, thumb and index pulling the string and raised pinkie finger, a sniff is enough for him to recognise the real thing. It brightens his whole face in surprise, familiar small crease of incredulity appearing between his eyebrows. Wormwood has the incongruous urge to lean in and touch that small crease with his lips. Readily, he curbs it.

“You... really did get it.” Cedric looks up, meeting his eye, and Wormwood's stomach backflips in his throat. “And... were you the one to do all this?”

And the door opens to him, if only a little. Wormwood has to squeeze his large frame through, but he has no complaints. He steps into the familiar space of the lair, their safe haven turned battlefield, and he feels as though he were sliding into a precarious, almost tangible bubble of trust. The too loud beating of his heart threatens to shatter the fragile air of the room, and he almost daren't take a step further, not even to put the new ingredients away.

He nods, unabashedly taking credit for the job done. Finally, he's seeing the workshop in a moment or relative calm, and like a painter coming back to his work once it's dried and rested, he can certainly testify that the place looks _sparkling_.

“Everything has been cleaned, organised, and put in alphabetical order; I brought in some of the new Helianthus they've planted... and I fixed everything that I―that was broken,” he finds himself rambling, full of hope. Just then, he notices the roll of parchment under Cedric's arm, there like he just picked it up before getting the door. “And the index, of course. It was long overdue.”

Cedric unrolls the parchment, and gives it a critical look. “Ah, yes. A _child_ would have done a more intelligible job,” he deadpans.

“Well, _pardon me_ , I don't have much handwriting experience,” Wormwood says, a bit sullenly.

A nerve-wracking moment of silence falls on them again, until Cedric finally heaves a sigh. He can do nothing to hide that touched glint in his eye, the same Wormwood saw when Sofia gave him his gold star, so long ago. It had been the first time Wormwood ever felt jealous of her.

“Fine,” Cedric concedes. “I'll let you use the equipment, since you were so kind as to repair it―after the huge mess you've made.”

Wormwood, finally feeling like he can move a step, goes to put the ingredients on the desk. Just then he notices that, pushed in front of the escritoire, there is an armchair that is not usually there.

“I haven't put this here,” he says preemptively. On the desk, there is also an untouched plate of food, in the style of neither Cedric or his mother. “And this either.”

“I know, of course.” Cedric sets down the index, and peruses the new ingredients with the tips of his fingers. “It was Father. He elected I must rest and eat something... _nutritious_.”

Wormwood throws a glance at the low bowl of beef stew, and the odd green mush next to it. It smells like cabbage, he guesses. Cedric _hates_ cabbage. But then, to be fair, he isn't fond of food that is not sweets in general, when he even remembers to get some into him. Goodwyn had always been known to complain about his runty sapling of a son, with nothing of his stout figure and healthy appetite.

“Was your father here?” Wormwood asks, catching up with the implications. Unable to raise his voice above a mumble, he attempts, “Are you... are you alright?”

“Don't you have a potion to brew?” Cedric interjects. He perches on one arm of the chair, dish in his hand, and starts picking at the food with an old silver spoon. “By all means, don't let me distract you from your duty to King and country.”

He seems set on watching him struggle. _Very well_ , Wormwood thinks. It doesn't take him too long to find the potion recipe. _A good start_ , he thinks, satisfied, as he props the book against the discarded ones and sets up the small cauldron on its left.

It comes with a burner under it, and he realizes he must make a fire. Without magic. _Maybe... if it's only this one spell..._ but the thought of Cedric's energy sapping away from him, traveling all the way into the Well's treacherous mouth, and back to the Family Wand for him to use... the thought of Cedric's lips, blue in his wan face, his heart beating so slow and shallow―he cannot bring himself to risk it.

“Do we have matches somewhere?” he sighs, defeated. Cedric leisurely points the spoon to the top left drawer.

Turns out the matches are too small for Wormwood to manoeuvre. _This is a waste of time_ , he thinks, the second one snapping between his fingers. _And I haven't even started yet._

“Fine-work is _so_ much harder than it looks, isn't it?” Cedric taunts, in a downright nasty drawl. “Isn't it astonishing, how a newcomer with a stolen wand and a confident posture cannot, actually, take the place of a licensed sorcerer?”

Wormwood ignores him. _Newcomer_ , he thinks, a bit bitter and a bit saddened. _As if I hadn't been right here all these years_.

“They think you're just sulking in here, you know,” he tells him. Cedric doesn't retort, and the raven doesn't glance over to see his reaction. “A _tantrum_ , the Steward called it.”

It takes him five more attempts, and as many snapped matches, to finally crack. He pulls the Wand from his sleeve. At his gesture, Cedric flinches and the still half-full dish almost flips out of his grasp, his eyes darting for the door. Wormwood's chest gives a small twinge.

“Alright,” he starts, lowering the Wand and his gaze. _I already said it once_ , he tells himself. He ends up spitting it out, harsh and low, like a curse. “I'm― _sorry_. Help me out.”

“Well,” Cedric rises from the chair's arm, all steepled fingers and strolling steps, as if he hadn't almost flung stew all over himself just a moment ago. He is trying to gloat, but his eyes are narrow with anger, and his voice has a slight tremble in it, a cord on the brink of snapping. “Isn't it a beautiful, deafening sound, the fall of the mighty? But, since you went around saying I've mentored you, then let me remind you: don't you know you can't do magic without the magic word?”

Wormwood breathes in, and lets out a long, long exhale. “Here,” he says, holding out the Wand as if it were the sword that will knight him. Or take off his head. “Have this back. _Please_.”

Cedric doesn't move, standing there for such a long moment Wormwood finally manages to glance up. His eyes, wide and trained on the Wand as though he were seeing it for the first time, have taken a strange cast, hard and lost and over-bright.

“The King's favour... matters to you a lot more than I thought,” Cedric notes quietly, almost dejected. “I wouldn't have expected you to bury your pride, and give back something you've... conquered.”

The King's favour. If only Wormwood could convey how low in his priorities the King's favour actually is. Maybe this is the moment he makes his apology, maybe this is his chance to fix everything. This is the moment he'll explain, and be _heard_. He takes a deep breath, setting the Wand down on the desk, so Cedric won't have to take it from his hand, and looking down at his broken claws.

“Listen, I...” he starts, “I... what I've done was―”

“Spare me whatever nonsense the Princess had you memorise,” Cedric cuts him off. His voice raises a little, and shakes in strain as he continues, “I... I know you are just saying it because you need my help. Don't think you can fool me again.”

Cedric's hand hovers above the Wand, inching towards it, but his eyes won't leave the raven's form. He looks like a fox attempting to snatch the wolf's meat, keeping an eye on him, convinced Wormwood will take the Wand away from him at the last second. Wormwood sighs, stepping back and turning away slightly. He cannot put Cedric's trust back together with a _Fixatis_ spell, after all.

A moment later, a loud snap and a yelp, followed by a miniature lightning-crackle make him whip his head back around. The Wand topples back on the desk. Wormwood stops it from rolling off, and meets the sorcerer's horrified stare.

Cedric tried to grab it, the raven gathers, but had to let go immediately: the Wand has rejected him, just like that mermaid child's enchanted comb did.

“Really? A _seal_?!” Around the fingers he shoved in his mouth, Cedric snarls, “Oh, this―this is _low_! Even for you!”

“What―? No, I didn't do it,” Wormwood says, frowning in confusion. _Why must everything go wrong?_ he thinks helplessly. “I really have no idea why it did that.”

Now, it would be easier for anyone to believe that Wormwood was being cruel again. How will he ever prove to Cedric he really knew nothing of it? The sorcerer has turned his back to him, standing hunched and motionless except for the slight heaving of his shoulders.

Wormwood cannot think of anything particularly convincing to tell him, besides, “Think, what reason would I have to make the Wand reject you, just now that I need your help?”

Cedric's breath catches.

“So, now you've really made it clear what you think of me,” he says, speaking between his teeth, words like sandpaper, turning away again when Wormwood steps cautiously around him to look him in the face. “You really must think I don't deserve that wand.”

“I didn't put the seal on it,” he repeats, worried. Cedric's eyes have that same empty look to them, as when Wormwood was hurling insults at him. “I want you to have it back, believe―”

“So,” the sorcerer starts, almost a snap, in a tone of forced, too loud small-talk. His stung hand is still clutched in the other, in a white-knuckled grip, and his mouth is nothing but a thin colourless line. “Tell me, _Mr. Corax_ , how do you like life as a dirty leech?”

Wormwood's breath hitches audibly. _He knows_. Before he can even think of something to say, Cedric continues, still looking nowhere with that terrible fixed gaze.

“Thanks to you, I had the chance to spend a _lovely_ afternoon with my father, begging him for scraps of explanation, as he popped my vertebras back into place, and yelled at me not to tell Mother.” Sarcasm dripping, he clips, “I had the _most_ wonderful time, as you can imagine. You have my most heartfelt thanks for that.”

So, there _was_ something wrong with Cedric's back in the end. For a moment, Wormwood feels ready to spill everything, confess all he's done.

“A... mess happened,” he says instead. His arms flop at his sides, gesturing limp and vague to the whole lair. “I've done all I could to apologise.”

“Of course you did,” Cedric sneers. In a bad imitation of Sofia's voice, he squeaks, “Just say you're sorry, and everything will be alright! Here's a list of what to say and do to convince dumb Mr. Cedric to help you out!”

Wormwood frowns. “It's not like that,” he says, between offended and desolated. “I did follow Sofia's advice, but―”

“ _Marvellous_. What a nice little team you make. All for a lousy apology the purpose of which you don't even grasp. Let's get this over with.” Cedric swats the small cauldron off the desk, and summons from the storage the biggest one he has―an impressive thing that can old a barrel-full―allowing it to fly across the room so carelessly Wormwood has to dodge it. “So you can get out of my sight.”

He lights the fire under the cauldron's sturdy pewter feet, with a wand-flick so harsh the desk almost goes up in green flames. Wormwood steps back.

“I didn't do it,” he attempts again, but Cedric acts like he hasn't spoken.

A flurry of emotions is rushing through the raven. Spikes of anger make his stomach clench on itself, and that odd wet feeling of guilt weights so much he can barely shoulder it. He wants to grab Cedric and shake him. He wants to wrack the window open and fly off. He wants to fall to his knees and beg. They are too many and too contrasting to act on any of them, or to even start sorting through them. Too absorbed in his own thoughts, for a moment he doesn't hear the sorcerer asking him to reach for the roots on the desk.

He doesn't snap out of it until Cedric claps his hands an inch from his nose, and barks, “Are you going to follow my instructions, at least, or do I have to do everything myself as usual?”

The raven blinks. The handclap has snuffed out the endless debate in his head, as though it were one of the workshop's enchanted candles. From that moment on, Cedric speaks to him only to give orders, and Wormwood is almost grateful for it. It is a relief, not being confronted, and instead working together towards a common goal.

No distractions, emotions numbed, the raven carefully weights pinches of eggshell powder on the delicate desk scales, trying not to blow away anything with a sigh. It still makes him ache a bit, to see half the Crocus and half the Helianthus roses skilfully and mercilessly minced, without hesitation. At least, he tells himself, now that Cedric agreed to help him―or, honestly, do most of the work―they'll be able to get back at the King.

Cedric has never been one for cold silent rage, though. The barely contained nervous energy in his gestures as he continues to methodically sort, select, and chop, gives Wormwood that low feeling in his gut, the one that feels like oncoming storms. The raven wishes he would go back to his usual feet-stomping and whining. That, he would know how to deal with.

“Grow-Fast Powder in one night,” Cedric mutters, between caustic and genuinely perplexed. The potion, with its base of water, minerals, and grass trimmings, smells like the garden after its weekly clip, with a strong magic tang to it. “What am I, a miracle worker? There's not even time to actually _powder_ it, I'll have to drag all the canisters around...”

“It's because you never explain how much effort goes into what you do,” Wormwood notes, a bit sheepishly. Not that anyone would listen to him, if he tried. “You try to make everything look easy, when it's not.”

“It is supposed to be, when you are the son of the _Beloved Goodwyn the Great_ ,” Cedric retorts, surprising Wormwood with an actual answer. Sort of. But then he catches himself, and slathers on the nastiness once again, “Good thing I have another pair of hands to assist me here, otherwise it would _really_ be a lost cause.”

Wormwood grunts. He has been assigned the task of cutting up dried moonkelp stalks into thin stripes, and it's harder than expected. The stalks are though as leather, and he gets impatient with his clumsy hands, still so unskilled at anything that requires strength and precision at the same time. It seems like it's either one of the other for him now: the same limbs that he would use to play air currents like a harp—drawing from them the perfect, lightning-fast turns that are the envy of all flying creatures—are now reduced to fumbling around the knife handle, awkward and oversized.

Cedric leaves him to struggle, and goes through with the next step, dumping a scoop of firewood ashes from the heater straight into the cauldron. The greenish mixture clots up into boiling mulch clumps that give off a strong smell of rotten eggs and decay.

“Now, that's appetizing,” Wormwood deadpans as Cedric hurries to open the window, coughing a little.

A passing glance to his half-finished stew, the sorcerer quips back, “Hm, still better than Father's cooking.”

Wormwood is seized by a rush of amazement so intense his knife sinks through the stalks and deep into the cutting board. He can see Cedric sobering up, opening the window with a more forceful gesture than needed, angry at himself for having lapsed out of his angry demeanour for a moment. _Maybe it is like Sofia said_ , Wormwood thinks with renewed hope, yanking the knife free, _he doesn't want us to be apart either._

After a while, when he has left the sliced kelp to soak in water, he washes his hands and tentatively steps at Cedric's side. He's focused on the potion, as it goes through the critical cycles of melting and solidifying, smell ranging from foul to earthy and back to foul. In apparent unawareness, Cedric takes a step away from him, and lets out a nasal hum of impatience.

“It won't be ready in time at this rate, and there will be no feast, and it will be my fault, as usual,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Confronted with Cedric putting distance between them, Wormwood's first instinct is to go after him. But that goes against Sofia's advice, and he himself likes to be left alone when he's in a mood. Though saddened, he holds still.

“Well, my fault, technically,” he soothes. “I was the one asked first, so the responsibility is mine.”

“They always find a way. You should know how it works here,” Cedric huffs, rolling his eyes. “You should know better than anyone else.”

“I won't let them,” Wormwood tries again. Cedric is right, of course, but every word out of his mouth feels like a jab. Wormwood supposes he deserves it. “I'll speak up for you.”

Cedric ignores him. “It's no use, I have to try and splice it with the brewing shortcut... I need the second volume, the one with Father's notes on it.”

He looks around, spotting it with innate sense. Wormwood spots it because he's put it himself on the top shelf in the morning. They move at the same time to get it, Cedric wedging a foot on the lower shelf to hoist himself up, Wormwood stepping behind him to simply reach for the book and take it.

His chest bumps into Cedric's shoulder, and the sorcerer goes inhumanly still under him, forgetting his climb halfway. Wormwood forgets his hand up, distracted by the tangy scent of milk-vetch in Cedric's hair.

He must have bathed, rinsed himself of the horrible night they spent apart, born anew into clean clothes and a mask of dry anger he can't keep up. The scent of him is warm, familiar, and brings him back to the hostile forest and the thin strip of fabric he clung to for sanity. The ribbon doesn't look constricting around Cedric's neck anymore. He blinks, his mind fogging up. He cannot help but lean in, as if he could still perch on his shoulder, brushing against that reassuring, living warmth. _Safe_ , he thinks, almost drowsily.

“W-will you maybe let me climb down?” Cedric snatches the book from his forgotten hand, and squeezes himself under his arm to get away. His free hand clamps to his nape, rubbing the goosebumps of the raven's breath from his skin.

Wormwood shakes his head, turning around to follow him, full of confusion and a bit colder under his black robe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally a creep, Vol II.


	11. The Trouble You Brew - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, finally, talking happens.

They work in silence, implementing the shortcuts from Goodwyn's notes to cut back on brewing time. The rain is white noise in Wormwood's ears, as he puts his conflicting emotions aside again to concentrate on the instructions given to him.

The timing between them is almost flawless, he proudly notes. No one watching them could tell it's the first time they effectively work together on a project. Nothing less could be expected from a pair with thirty years of amity under their belts, he supposes. _It can be saved, it has to_ , Wormwood thinks, clinging to the way their movements seem to follow a precise rhythm, like a rehearsed dance. Wormwood has hands now, and even though they're clumsy, they open for him an unforeseen horizon on the hard work he was only ever able to observe. This, he thinks, is what he should have done from the beginning, he's _right_ for this, it's right for them.

After a while, the potion is set and simmering, and it's only a matter of adding the last few ingredients at the right time.

Concentrating has become much harder. Something odd is happening, and Wormwood is clueless what it is. Working side by side with Cedric, like in the days that already feel so distant, gives him a sense of relief so intense it borders on painful; nostalgic of something completely new. And yet, something else is moving, twinging in his chest in the same place that horrible anger lit up like a roaring beast. As he tries to stay focused on his task of chopping up into small pieces the now soaked strips of kelp, something guides his eye to Cedric's back every time he leans forward to stir the cauldron.

Hands firmly gripping a wooden ladle almost as tall as he is, Cedric's protruding shoulder-blades become outlined through his robe as he pulls his arms back, stirring the dense contents, fluidly, hips and torso twisting like a squeezed rag to apply the necessary force. It is such a smooth line, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. It is hard to imagine that fluid, sinuous curve had to be restored with magic. He must have been in so much pain, the whole night and the carriage ride and being carried in his rough hands...

Then, the sorcerer pauses to roll up his shirtsleeves to the elbow. His left forearm, a sorry sight only a few hours earlier, now sports four white lines― _scars_ , the raven realises, and all thought whirrs to a halt in his head. He doesn't even notice the knife nicking his thumb until a bit of sap seeps into it; then, the sting makes him look down, and the whole cutting board is red.

“Oh,” he, perceptively, notes.

“Alright, just a bit more,” Cedric is saying. “Hurry up with that, we must add― _oh no_!” The ladle flies from Cedric's hands when he glances back at him, gasping in alarm, “Wormy, your _hand_!”

Wormwood watches the thick red drops seep from the tender split meat of his thumb, between irritation and interest. It's just now starting to hurt, stinging and pulsing in a truly overdramatic manner for such a small wound. Just like his nails, there's no risk of him bleeding out from it, so he watches the blood run onto the charcoal skin of his hand, fascinated.

“Hold still, hold still, I'll fix you up in no time,” Cedric says, in front of him in three hurried steps. He makes to lift his wand, but thinks better of it, and grabs one of the moonkelp strips instead.

Slender, glove-clad fingers close around Wormwood's hand, with no hesitation, and when Wormwood lifts his eyes Cedric is so near, enough to bump noses with. _He called me Wormy_ , he thinks distantly, and not even the sting of the healing seaweed is enough to curb the tug of relief in his chest.

Cedric was about to use a healing spell, but then didn't. _Because I told him not to use spells on me anymore,_ he realises. Touched, the raven watches his thumb heal up through the gel-like seaweed flesh, cupped in Cedric's hands, as if time could revert in that safe, gloved space. When he lifts his eyes again, he notices Cedric is staring down at his hand, but not at the thumb. He's looking at his broken claws, lifting his fingers to the light.

“What... happened to your nails,” he murmurs, and it's not really a question.

The raven sighs. “I tried to trim them,” he admits. “Just after our... talk. Didn't go as planned.” Just like everything else these days.

Unexpectedly, instead of letting go at the mention of their argument, Cedric leans in close, peering up under the claws, completely unbothered at having them so close to his face.

“With the clippers? But you hate― _oh no_ , they're all quickened!” His eyes are so wide when he looks up at him, fiery chestnut and full of incomprehension. “That's dangerous! Why would you do such a thing?”

He's so close, it makes Wormwood lose his words again. Wordlessly, the raven upends the hold, until his own palm is over Cedric's, and the pads of his fingers can brush the thin white scars on his arm.

“ _Atonement_ ,” Wormwood says through his touch, barely mouthing the word along. The arm gives a small twitch, skin breaking out in goosebumps under his fingers, the nullified threat of his claws. The moment of silence stretches, all breaths held.

Then, the sudden snap of a spark from the cauldron makes them jolt.

“The kelp!” Cedric gasps, arm flowing away as freshwater fish between the raven's fingers. He hurries to add the seaweed to the potion and stir. After a tense moment, the mixture changes to a lively orange liquid, and he deflates against the heavy ladle. “Alright, it is saved.”

“E-excellent,” Wormwood manages to say. He cradles his right hand, thumb still stinging, the whole of it feeling a little warmer. Gulping down the lump in his throat, he checks the recipe. “Now, it only needs to simmer for seven hours and twelve minutes, says here.”

The sorcerer has fallen silent, staring into the cauldron's depths. The potion's glow puts coppery embers in his downcast eyes. Somehow, Wormwood knows the fate of his apology is intertwined with the fate of this potion they are brewing together, the magical fertiliser that can save the Autumn feast, and regrow their friendship like a weed, as the rabbit said. Wormwood steps at Cedric's side again, and this time Cedric doesn't move away.

“I thought you would be here, last night, gloating,” Cedric says quietly. “But it seems it was quite the bad night for both of us, instead.”

“Awful. But I only got lost in the forest,” Wormwood hurries to answer. He adopts the same volume, as if speaking too loudly could break some enchantment laid upon them to let them talk. Sofia's observation resonated with him when she said it, so he borrows her words, “I couldn't bear to stay here, not after what happened.”

Slowly, he hints at taking the sorcerer's hand again. With a noise of annoyance, Cedric pulls away before he can even move.

“Honestly, do you think I care about a few scratches?” he says, his voice still too low, and behind it the restrained force, the unfamiliar cold anger Wormwood doesn't know how to place. Cedric pulls down his sleeves in haste. “These are nothing. It took Father less than a minute to heal everything up, he didn't even notice I had them.”

“But I behaved like... some mindless brute,” Wormwood says, frowning in incomprehension. Cedric folds his arms tightly. “I've frightened you. I left you scarred.”

“You are a _raven_. You can't be expected to...” he trails off, gesturing vaguely. _Just an animal_ , Wormwood's mind supplies, rewriting his words in crueler terms, _how could you ever live up to human expectations?_

“Besides,” Cedric spiels, with an air of wanting to change the topic, “it only scarred because of some mishap with this Protection Charm I had on, combining with this old healing spell my father likes to use even though there are dozens alternatives―but I digress.”

Wormwood barely hears him, the hit from the first part still ricocheting in him.

“But,” he attempts, at a loss for words. “It might be true that I acted on instinct, but I thought―”

“Wormwood, you could have _covered_ me in scratches, for all I care!” Cedric draws in a sigh, staring down into the cauldron again, voice lower, almost a hiss, “But... taking the _Family Wand_ , and the things you've _said_ to me... you know me, you knew what you were doing... and if I had known you've thought so lowly of me all these years...”

From there, he cannot continue. He steps back from the cauldron, brimming with nervous energy, like he wants to run. Or weep. Or both.

“I do not think lowly of you,” Wormwood tells him, voice down to a croak. “I spoke in anger. I couldn't bear that you wanted to change me back right away.”

“I thought you were stuck in this form! I thought it was an accident, or some curse, done against your will―!” Cedric frets, moving to pace around the workshop. “I didn't even know you―could _think_ just like a human, I mean I knew you were smart, but I couldn't imagine―but who would chose to be _human_ , of all things? Who would give away _wings,_ for this life where you get bossed around all day, and pull all-nighters at the King's whim?”

“Me, it seems,” the raven murmurs. The admission weights on him, like stones on his chest, “I've wanted to talk to you for so long, and I was...”―he cannot bring himself to tell him he was running out of time, cannot confess to the shame―“I wanted you to _hear_ me.”

Cedric lets out a sort of drawn-out keen. “What we have... being my companion, sharing my life, is it really so miserable?” he asks, encompassing the lair in a desolate gesture. “I always thought... even if no one can stand me, we would still... I thought―”

“Wait, wait, it's the other way around,” Wormwood walks around the cauldron to face him, halting his pacing. “I wanted my words to have power, so I said the things that I knew would upset you. What we have... I've used it against you―but I shouldn't have. I truly regret it.”

Cedric looks at him for a long, long moment, standing motionless. “Is this...” he tries, “is this _really_ you?”

Taken aback, Wormwood stutters, “It is me.”

“I cannot see it.” Cedric glances to his empty perch, arms flopping at his sides in a defeated shrug. “You seem so different. You judge, like all the others, and it is... as though I were still waiting for... the real you to come back to me.”

Wormwood takes it, although it feels like a battering ram straight through the gut. He swallows, and picks up his sunken heart, not yet ready to give up.

“I am still the same,” he croaks. He dares take the sorcerer by the shoulders, black claws on purple robe, as careful as a mother taking her pups by the scruff. “I was always like this, mean and cold and deceitful―just like you. But I am still your raven, the one you fed and taught to fly and play checkers and―”

He halts. In his hands, Cedric's shoulders are trembling, his breathing shallow, his face turned away to hide his eyes.

“Stop,” he says, in a brittle whisper. “It's not the same, how can it be the same when―”

“ _Please_ ,” Wormwood begs, and he pulls away even though he'd want to do the complete opposite, hold tighter, not let go of him until he's seen his truth. “The only difference is that you can understand me when I speak, really. I'm still here, I'm still me.” _I'm still yours_.

The sorcerer shakes his head, looking every bit as pained and helpless as Wormwood feels. The raven cannot think of anything else, so he goes to his knees, and looks up at the sorcerer's confused frown, into his eyes that look again lost and wide and too bright.

Cedric allows him to take his hand, so he lifts it and places it on top of his head. He bows, and it costs him, exposing the back of his neck like that, but it's only fair. He was the one to put Cedric at his most vulnerable, one way or another; but they'll be even now. The hand, its touch at once so familiar and so new, stays motionless in his hair for a long moment. Cedric must have frozen in place again.

“Feel it,” Wormwood prompts, forcing himself to keep his head down. “See? It's just the same as my feathers.”

The hand moves a little bit, smoothing over the thick locks in a hesitant caress. It won't find any of the wiry resistance of his old feathers, but he hopes the textural reminiscence is strong enough. Still, as soon as Cedric's hand touches him with a little more certainty, Wormwood's mind hazes, as if he had been waiting for nothing else his whole life.

“It... it is the same,” Cedric notes, his voice small and full of amazement. Wormwood responds with a low groan of unabashed bliss. “But... I thought you didn't like being touched at all.”

“I don't mind, if it's you,” he says, more of an understatement than a lie, lifting his head a bit. With the movement, the hand in his hair falls to the side of his face, combing the flyaway locks behind his ear. Every new touch undoes him a little more. He manages to say, “I just don't like being manhandled. The same as you.”

Cedric's hand halts a moment, and Wormwood fears he might have said too much. But the motion resumes and slowly, slowly, Wormwood leans forward until his forehead touches the sorcerer's belt.

He daren't press into his stomach as he used to do, and neither fold his arms around Cedric's middle to pull him closer, their trust still so fragile. He just holds still, forgetting the rough stones under his knees, the awkward hang of his arms, the uncomfortable bend of his neck. The cauldron simmers quietly behind them, consuming the minutes.

Wormwood could fall asleep there, he realizes. He could fall asleep like this every night of his lengthened life, and the thought makes his heart so light he almost cannot stand it. Back in the tower, with Cedric's hand stroking his hair as though nothing had changed, he really feels like anything is possible. _I always feel stronger when I'm with my friends_ , Sofia told him. _Like I can handle anything that comes my way._ He wonders if Cedric had felt stronger, with him on his shoulder. He thinks of all the times he hasn't been there.

He doesn't fall asleep. Instead, his stomach elects to break the easy silence with a mighty rumble. This body, although strong and comfortable, needs to be fed an alarming amount. Cedric takes half a step away from him, clearing his throat, with the air of someone whose daydreaming was abruptly interrupted. The raven's chest clenches a bit at the loss.

As he raises to his feet again, Cedric gestures noncommittally to the leftover stew. “It is cold now, but by all means, have it,” he offers.

“I have an inkling it's the only meal you've had in a while,” Wormwood retorts, “so by all means, you should finish it.”

“I'll be sick if I eat any more of it,” Cedric says bluntly. A furtive glance at the portrait. “ _By all means_ , I insist.”

The raven gives in. The cold stew isn't certainly the best thing he ever had, but food is food, after all. And it is a shared meal, just like yesterday's breakfast of oatmeal and raisins, and he can pretend no disaster befell them in the meantime. He uses Cedric's spoon without hesitation. In the draughty tower that has seen them at their best and their worst, he has seen Cedric bathe and change and wake up with puffy eyes and mussed hair, and he wants to think their awful familiarity has never changed, despite the changes happening around it.

“Why did Goodwyn visit, anyway?” he asks around a spoonful. “Is your mother worried?”

Cedric looks pensive for a moment, perching on the arm of the chair again. “Not that I know of. One of Father's spells broke, two days ago. A Protection Charm he put on me after my... fall, out at sea.”

Cedric had never spoken much of that instance, not even with his raven. All Wormwood knows is that thirty years prior, some time before the two of them met, Cedric fell into some hole in the rocks, and barely got out alive. Wormwood had been surprised, discovering that other humans weren't as resilient as Cedric; he thought them weak and pathetic.

“Is this Charm the reason you've never been injured before?” he asks. Goodwyn being Goodwyn, he probably thought making the child invulnerable would keep him out of harm's way. How must he now bemoan the ingrained recklessness his actions brought. “And it broke the very evening you got the Wand?”

“Yes―but it cannot be the Wand,” Cedric says, shooting it an accusatory glance. “As you know, I've barely touched it since he gave it to me.”

 _Oh no_ , Wormwood suddenly realizes, a glimpse of snapping vine in his memory making him flinch. _It was the blackberries_.

Eating the fruit established the link between the bramble's leeching abilities and Cedric's magic. But how does a plant posses the power to breach a Protection Charm cast by Goodwyn the Great himself? Wormwood swallows, stew down his throat like a mouthful of glue. He allowed himself to put the disaster out of his mind for a moment, and the discomfort the thought of it brings only grew while he was otherwise occupied.

“I really didn't know my experiments were bothering you so much, or why,” Cedric starts. He speaks warily, as though he didn't quite know how to phrase his thought. “But then... Father told me about the Charm he did and...”

Wormwood tilts his head at him, immediately refocusing. “And now you relate?”

A nod, somewhat hesitant. “It's not even a spell to alter my body or anything like that... and I imagine explaining it to a six year old would have been nearly impossible―I should just be thankful, shouldn't I?” Cedric glances guiltily at the portrait. “I recall almost nothing between falling and waking up, and when I did I was fine―well, too much of a coward to go outside again, but mostly fine.”

“You were no coward,” Wormwood says. “You climbed up a tree trunk, just to pull a young raven out, I recall.”

“In wisdom, I don't take after Mother,” Cedric says, with a chuckle that doesn't reach his eyes. “But, truly, I don't know what bothers me about it.”

“He didn't tell you he would do it,” Wormwood answers easily. “He wouldn't even try to find the words to explain, as if he considered you some object to decide for, and not a sentient being.”

Cedric looks at him, running his fingers over his clothed forearm. He seems lost in thought for a long while.

Then, looking away, he asks, “Is that how I made you feel? Like a _thing_ , instead of a friend?”

It is so direct, Wormwood doesn't know where to hide. He barely finds it in himself to nod, carefully setting the empty bowl down. Cedric's understanding leaves him disconcerted, actually: he's not usually the most insightful of characters. Is this the power of words, he wonders, of speaking the same language?

The silence that falls is ripe with things unsaid. Part of him wants to seize the moment and go over everything that happened, shed light on every single action. But at the same time, he feels it's better to let the matter rest for the moment. Cedric, too, doesn't ask him about the Wand, about how he changed forms, about the leeching of power endangering his life. _I can't tell him until I know how to fix it,_ Wormwood repeats to himself. _It's for the best._

Cedric only asks, “Will you believe me, if I promise I won't try to experiment on you again?” At his silence, he hurries to advocate for himself, “I am not under threat now, and I have nothing to gain by breaking such a promise, so you can believe me, right?”

“I can certainly try,” he murmurs, feeling a tentative smile pull at his mouth.

 _Forgiveness is not something you do, but something you feel,_ the wise snakeling has taught him. And, constantly drawn in by some unknown centripetal pull, he had almost forgotten he's not only seeking forgiveness for his actions, but must also extend it himself.

Cedric has risen to check on the cauldron. “Well, then, only a few more hours to go,” he says. “I'll stay here and stir when needed. You can take the bed, if you wish to rest.”

The raven looks at him. He does wish to rest, but Cedric said it as though it were obvious, like he hadn't been ready to throw him out just a few hours before.

“Or... you can go to the room they gave you, I suppose,” Cedric back-pedals, once again filling his silence with fretting, gesturing as if to shake his previous words from the air. “I just said it out of habit. There is nothing forcing you to spend every single moment with me now that...”

He trails off, hunching his shoulders. Still sitting on the stool, Wormwood fights the urge to get up and wrap himself around him, shield him from the world's cruelty, even from the cruelty he inflicted himself. He searches for the words to use instead.

“There was nothing forcing me when I was a raven, either,” he says softly, as if he had a way to be sure.

Cedric raises hands and eyebrows at him, the picture of disbelief. “Just go and take the bed, then,” he fusses. He catches the first book under his eye― _The Deep End of the Potion_ , held upside down―and waves it energetically at him. “I'll... probably just read, anyway. Or catnap.”

It takes him only the time for Wormwood to go downstairs, rinse the day off, and come back up with a blanket, and he's already asleep.

Wormwood steps closer to him, a tangle of willowy limbs curled on the armchair, with the book cradled to his chest. The raven too needs to sleep, his body heavy with fatigue, but in his chest that something keeps coiling and turning; a vague, unrestful clench as he looks over the steady rise and fall of Cedric's breathing. No more wheezing, no more blue lips, or skin as cold as ice. _I won't use leeched magic anymore_ , Wormwood nods to himself, looking over at the black Wand still on the desk, that doesn't hold upright on its own like the original used to do.

Cedric certainly would be more comfortable on the bed, Wormwood considers, observing the angle of his craned neck, all bent against the chair's arm and tilted back. At least, he can see there is not a single blue line on it, the skin pale and smooth as usual, no trace left of his mistakes.

A lock of Cedric's fringe is tickling his nose, that twitches in his sleep. Wormwood leans in to brush it away with the tip of his claw. A draft from the open window makes the sorcerer shiver, mumbling some nonsense. Wormwood could scoop him up right now, and carry him to bed, and lend him all the warmth his changed body can produce. Would he have a good rest, cradled in his arms? Would he feel as safe, as cared for as Wormwood used to feel in his hold?

For now, the raven has no way to know. In lieu of himself, he drapes the blanket over Cedric's resting form. Then, he takes a first step away from him, walking backwards. It feels almost unnatural, putting space between them, and the idea of sleeping in their bed without him near―for a moment he really doubts that there is no enchantment over him.

Reluctant, and more than ever full of doubt, he walks down the stairs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings & Potion brewing, a match.


	12. Shadow Sorcerer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is very important posturing advice.

In the wee hours of morning, when the sky is still dark and cloudy as diluted ink, Cedric gives the potion a final stir, and deems it stable enough to leave for a moment. Only one hour or so to go, according to Father's notes.

Carrying a candle in his hand, and the blanket over his arm, the sorcerer tiptoes to his chambers downstairs. He hasn't rested horribly, everything considered. He was expecting to dream of the _fall_ , with all that reminded him of it in the past few days—a wound on his arm, talking about it, plunging in the river―but at least, if he did dream of it, the night has drawn a merciful veil over him, and he has no memory of it.

The night air smells crisp as winter on the stairs, where the draft puts a chill in his sleep-numbed joints, and he can almost see his breath. And yet, the shiver that runs down his back as he halts in front his bedroom door has nothing to do with the temperature.

Cedric doesn't know if the raven is even there. If he has taken his offer, or changed his mind halfway down the staircase. And how strange it was, to offer Wormwood the same bed they've shared for decades, as though it were some novelty, some grand favour. The roles of who is offering the tower to whom have switched too many times, in too short a period of time to keep track. For all he knows, the previous night―when Wormwood knelt for him to let him feel his soft hair, and spoke of regret like he truly meant it―could all very well be a delusion from his sleep-deprived mind.

The most somber part of the tower, the stone foyer where he stands, now bears no trace of their fight of just two days prior. Even his toy castle has been repaired; it gave his chest a strange squeeze, seeing it set back on its round table, perfect and untouched, like an inward pressure in his ribcage, unfamiliar and not entirely unpleasant. Wormwood must be really adamant to maintain the royal favour, to try and make amends with such thoroughness.

Following this logic, the raven must have been the one to bring him back from the village, he muses, eyeing the blanket over his arm. Given the hanging hostility between them the previous day, he supposes, it does make it a bit less inexplicable.

But Wormwood said he was trying to help, fanning the fog away and shutting the men up. And all the work to set the lair back into shape, and the trip to get the Crocus... the raven must have done all these things in the morning, as soon as he found his way back from the forest. Cedric halts, blindsided by the thought of his raven, lost who knows where, all alone in the woods in the dead of night... he shakes the image from his mind, cross with himself. It only adds to the pile of conflicting emotions crowding his head. _All of this is inexplicable_ , he decides. _And now it's not the time_. The door creaks open at his push, and he holds his breath.

As he shields the candleflame with his palm, objects in the room arise as apparitions from the shadows, reflections glinting back at him like eyes in the dark. First, the brass knobs of the vanity, the curtain's iron holdbacks, the worn-shiny walnut of the canopy columns. Then, a gleam of velvet from Wormwood's robe and belt, slung across the back of a chair.

A step further, and the raven is there. Taken aback by the actuality of his presence, Cedric's knees lock where he stands. He can pick up a very distinctive smell, grass and damp corduroy, that brings his suspicion to a fleeting certainty: it's the same smell he woke up to the previous afternoon, at once familiar and not quite. It takes him a while to move another step.

His eye falls to the raven's menacing hands, capable of that terrifying, inescapable grip. If it really was him... then Wormwood's hands have lain him down to rest, without rousing him nor leaving a single scratch more on his skin.

He can picture the raven looming over him, pinching the blankets―the very same blankets he's now resting on―with the pads of his fingers, in the same odd way he saw him handle the moonkelp stalks. Those hands _can_ be delicate, he has to deduce, remembering how carefully the raven touched the scars on his arm, how intense the shock of warmth had run down to his fingertips.

Contrasting sharply with the foyer, the room is strangely warm: the air envelops Cedric as the woolly folds of a cloak, making him shudder as he takes a couple of steps further in.

Wormwood doesn't have much of the menace in him now, he notes, letting the thin blanket he's carried fall across a chair. The raven looks like he tossed and turned a lot in his sleep: he's out of the sheets from the waist up, with one leg just dangling out of the bed. His severe, intense brow is slack, his imposing stature laid down in a sprawl of long limbs, dark on the white sheets like bare branches against a winter sky.

A few steps closer. Every detail of him comes to life in the wavering halo of the candle, from the smooth transition of swarthy, umber skin to the lustre, almost bluish black of his forearms and calves, to the raised veins gracing his resting limbs. Whoever changed Wormwood to his current form sure knows their art, Cedric notes distantly. Impeccably made from head to toe, not a single imperfection to be found. The raven doesn't snore; his breathing is a fluid ascending undertow, as though the whole sea were breathing inside the chamber.

The air seems to grow warmer and warmer the closer Cedric steps. _Is he running a fever?_ he can't help but wonder, inching closer to the expanding aura of body heat surrounding the sleeping raven. They both got rained on the previous day, after all. Could he even _get_ a fever in this form? Though vexed at himself for worrying, Cedric sets the candle down on the nightstand and perches on the edge of the bed, reaching hesitant fingertips to Wormwood's forehead.

The raven doesn't feel particularly hot to the touch, just sleep-warm. Cedric runs a finger over his elegant brows, inhuman and elongated, like feathers sweeping up at the sides of his head. An interesting transformation job, for sure. A very symmetrical, chiselled job, he thinks, finger tracing down the raven's high cheekbone and strong jawline, and the long long ears he's only seen in illustrations of forest spirits and demons from the Netherworld. His hair, instead, is almost painfully familiar, dark and glossy as obsidian in the candlelight, very much the same as a raven's feathers under his hesitant fingers.

There is a sudden, rumbling noise, deep in Wormwood's throat. That's no sound a raven should make, a guttural growl so purely animal it sends a chill down Cedric's spine, as though he were some incautious prey poking a great resting beast. But Wormwood doesn't stir: he only inhales deeply, and turns his head until he's nosing into his hand.

Cedric swallows emptily. The creature he's slowly coming to reconcile with the raven he's known all his life, this colossus of raw strength and careless words that always strike a bit too close for comfort... is he leaning into his touch? Cedric scoffs to himself, pulling away.

Being touched over the head just reminds Wormwood of his fledgeling days, when he needed the warmth to grow big and strong, that's all. Why would there ever be more to it, he thinks, that'd be ridiculous.

And yet, the way the raven is lying down, half-turned to the side, creates a nook between his arm and the great hill of his chest, an empty space of white sheet that looks... _perfect_ , absolutely ideal.

They've shared this bed for years. Wormwood has implied he'd like for things to go back the way they were. Could it ever be the same? If Cedric just elected to forget everything that happened, put it behind them as just another mishap... would Wormwood stay by him, like the countless times they've shared a blanket against the chill, and the raven's soft feathers have kept his lap warm, last winter and all the winters before? Could it be like it used to be, even with this unfamiliar form?

Cedric shivers, his grip lapsing and letting himself picture how would it feel, how warm it would be, to curl himself there, just for a moment. He could just hide in the toasty room, instead of going outside in the cold, dealing with people he could very well go without... and he could pretend for a little while that someone can, if not enjoy, appreciate his presence. Tolerate him a little longer, at least.

The raven has put so much effort into his apology. He has given up the stolen Family Wand, abandoning magic to let Cedric gather his strength back. He even bowed to him, to prove he was sincere, the back of his neck bare and exposed through the wisps of his hair and the collar of his robe. Maybe he, too, wants nothing more than to forget what happened. Forget all the questions Cedric hasn't asked, forget that his misuse of magic almost cost him his life, even, forget it all.

Everything can go back to normal, he decides. Even the seal on the Wand... surely there's some way to go around it, somehow―maybe that spell he tried on the Mermaid Comb, the one that worked. _I'll get to it as soon as this potion matter is dealt with_ , he decides.

The thought of the potion brings another unpleasant thought: he'll have to consult with the King before going to the village to put it to good use. _He'll surely want to come along_ , he thinks with dread, cringing at the surge of memories from the previous day. And if Roland's favour is _that_ important to Wormwood, the whole time they'll be charming and wheedling at each other, getting along disturbingly well, and make Cedric wish once again he were a thousand miles from the both of them.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he wakes the raven by poking his forefinger into his shoulder. “Rise and shine, W―oh, hello,” he breathes when Wormwood rouses immediately, taken aback.

For some reason, he thought Wormwood wouldn't be such a light sleeper anymore, as a human. But instead of being irritated, the raven lifts a half-lidded gaze on him, in an incongruously feline slow-blink, almost a smile that stops at the eyes. In greeting, he gives a low, guttural hum, and shifts on his side to sit up. Cedric has to tear his eyes away from the fluid ripple of his bare midriff as he pulls seated, the almost indecent hang of the blanket covering him.

“H-how did you rest?” he manages to stutter out.

“Better than expected,” Wormwood answers, his voice a hoarse rumble. A lick of warmth trickles down inside Cedric, pooling in his gut like a slug of too-hot tea. He shifts uncomfortably. “Although I had trouble at first. As if one night away was enough to lose the habit.”

The raven traces his hand over the pillow he was resting his head on. There is a legion of them on the bed, but that one is Cedric's favourite, the one with the perfect balance of soft and springy.

“It wasn't the first time you slept away from this bed,” Cedric notes, attempting to sound nonchalant. He has made Wormwood stand guard or sent him out on missions many a time over the years. _Doing his bidding_ , the raven called it.

“But it's the first time I...” Wormwood gives him a glance, and trails off. He clears his throat lightly. “Is it time to pour, already?”

“Almost,” Cedric says. “I've checked on the cauldron and stirred regularly... shouldn't be long now. I'll be getting the canisters from storage.”

“Have _you_ rested?” the raven asks, a bit out of nowhere. Delicately, without letting his nails snag the fabric, he strokes the sheets under him. “You could sleep a bit more, if you wish to. You... look like you could use it. I can oversee the last part.”

It takes Cedric enough by surprise that he forgets to get offended. The words are better-chosen, but it is no different than what he said the previous night, when the first words out of his mouth were to remark how awful he looked. It seems that words _not_ made to cut have a much harder time taking shape in the raven's mouth. _I must look more worn-out than usual_ , he guesses. He doesn't quite have the strength to look at himself in the mirror.

“Nonsense,” he lies, waving his hand. “I am perfectly fine, fit as a fiddle!”

“Are you?” the raven insists, and he leans in a fraction.

Wormwood's arms frame Cedric's side where he sits, like great columns, in an almost-embrace. Heat radiates from his body like a lit fireplace, and the weight of his presence threatens to make Cedric's elbows give out. It would be so easy. He'd just have to mirror him and lean in, and let himself forget everything. It almost seems like Wormwood _wants_ him to lie down with him. He wouldn't push him off his own bed after all this fuss, would he? It would set them right back at the start, and Wormwood doesn't want that either, does he?

“I-indeed,” he rasps, almost choking on his own saliva. He can't bring himself to risk it. His heart could not take it, to be thrown out a second time in such a short timespan. Aching behind the shield he forces himself to put up, grabbing the candle from the nightstand so quickly wax spills on his gloves, he adds, “I'll... meet you upstairs, then.”

“Of course,” the raven folds, looking away. He gives him a nod that, in the half-light, looks almost mournful.

* * *

Somehow, the early morning has found them gravitating towards the upper window.

As soon as Wormwood stepped on the landing to the workshop, his nostrils were assaulted by the pervasive smell of rotten rhubarb roots, so intense it made him regret all the new nuances his human nose can smell.

 _Humans and their easily poisoned bodies_ , he grumbles internally, crossing the floor with his breath held. He didn't mind the sensitivity when the scent of Cedric's hair on the pillow was the only thing helping him fall asleep, sure... but he could honestly go without all this fine-picking in the bad smell department.

Seeking shelter from the stench, he takes the stairs to the lofted part of the library. There, propped on his elbows with his hair touched by the night breeze, he finds Cedric.

The raven doesn't ask why he fled the room in haste when Wormwood offered him the bed. _M_ _ust have scared him again,_ he chastises himself. It was just so natural, waking up and seeing him, as though everything was back to normal. He heaves a wistful sigh, setting his palm on the cold windowsill and peering down into the yard, following Cedric's line of vision.

At the end of it, as though it were inevitable, he finds their kindly monarch.

“Everyone is up early today,” he comments quietly, to catch Cedric's attention.

Lost in thought, the sorcerer barely gives a hum in answer.

“Oh, the things we do for King and country,” the raven jokes through the unknown stab of _something_ that runs through him, when the foul smell reaches them even up there.

Down in the yard, King Roland is moving about, flanking his Steward in directing the staff. He seems springy, as usual. Despite the adverse circumstances, they all seem determined to make the castle a shining beacon of glory against the gloomy weather.

“Indeed.” Cedric finds it in himself to smirk a little bit. Evenly, he says, “The Equinox is tonight, and preparations take time. He's always telling everyone what to do when there's a crisis.”

Wormwood hums. “Isn't that what a King is supposed to do?”

Cedric gives him a glance, and leans his chin back on his forearms. The first, overcast light of dawn makes his complexion look waxen, almost greyish, and highlights the half-moons of shadow under his eyes. He doesn't look worse than yesterday, but Wormwood is sure he _could_ use some more sleep.

“I'm... not sure anymore,” Cedric murmurs, like a thought that slipped out loud. A yawn cuts off whatever else he might have wanted to say.

Wormwood blinks at him. If someone had asked Cedric why did he want to become King, the wording of his answer would have changed throughout the years, but the gist of it had always been, _so people will look at me, and do as I say_.

“Would it make anybody listen to me, calling myself the King?” Cedric says, sounding again like he's thinking out loud, a thought unfinished, not ready to be out there. “Or would they laugh at me, rather?”

Now he's speaking as though he were already defeated, like all the dreams that always accompanied him had been meaningless all along. And, what scares Wormwood most, now that he has seen up close how power dynamics seem to work in the human world... he's not sure either that Cedric could stage a coup and make it out alive. Just like he shouted at him. Sooner or later, he supposes, it comes a time in everyone's life when they hate being right.

“They'd probably ignore you,” Wormwood says, a bit bluntly. Cedric turns to look at him, face scrunched up in a frown. Wormwood hurries to explain, “I mean, who would listen to someone who slouches like he's trying to disappear every time someone talks to him?”

“I don't _slouch_ ,” Cedric grumbles, hunching his shoulders defensively. He catches himself, and straightens up with evident effort. “Well, it's not like I can just _stop_ being nervous―or make myself want to talk to them when I'd rather be left alone.”

“Of course,” Wormwood agrees, making an effort to keep his tone in check. He points down into the yard. “But look at the way _His Highness_ stands tall, making himself look bigger than anyone else. He doesn't show his fears to the people he's confronting. He doesn't need to tell anyone to listen, his stance is already demanding it.” He glances down at himself. “That is probably why I also seem to easily command the attention of humans.”

“That's because you're seven feet, and you strut like you own the place,” Cedric deadpans. “You look like the villain from some old fairy tale, the counterproductive ones Mother used to tell us when we couldn't sleep. The ones that don't end well.”

The raven doesn't know if he should be offended or flattered. Odd or inhuman features aren't so rare among magic users: from what he's seen, accidents and bad taste tend to occur in equal measure. But it's usually not the trustworthy kind of magic user, Wormwood knows. _I did ask the damn Well for an intimidating form_ , he reminds himself.

“I shan't disagree,” he concedes. “But what is your point?”

“My _point_ is, among humans, when you look like you could simply squash anything in your way... no one thinks you would even _have_ fears, let alone see them.”

The raven huffs a laugh from his nose. “But I wasn't always like this,” he reminds him. He has plenty of fears. Even fears that are entirely new, and they have nothing to do with his size. “My raven form was crow-sized, if you recall. And I would still strut like I own the place.”

“I recall.”

Cedric passes him and trots down the stairs, starting to get everything ready for the pouring. Several metal-spouted canisters of various sizes are lined up by the cauldron, like a brood next to the mother.

Wormwood follows him down, and adds, “As I have made use of the advantages I had, regardless of form, so can you. If you show no fear, there is a good chance that your enemy will just forfeit the confrontation. Even only in their mind.” He taps Cedric very lightly on his poking shoulder-blades, and borrows one of Winifred's speeches, from her tales of war and fable that are always half anecdotes, “ _Only fools dare to cross a fearless man,_ after all.”

“Don't bring Mother's martial past into these matters,” Cedric chides. All the same, he straightens under his light touch. “And of course I slouch, actually, I spend my life bowing and curtseying... I can't exactly show dominance to my employers, can I?”

Nonetheless, the improvement is instant: when he holds his head high, and his spine straight, Cedric has an almost regal air to him. It confers gravitas to his strong features, and his indifferent heavy-lidded gaze and the smooth arch of his back reveal the aristocratic upbringing he has received. He can look dangerous at times, even, in the way venomous snakes look when they hold their slender bodies upright in fine tension, the slightness of his physiognomy gaining an air of dainty, menacing elegance.

Wormwood walks a circle around him, as the sorcerer looks at him out of the corner of his eye, between suspicious and intrigued.

“Not at all times, certainly,” Wormwood remembers to say, realizing he's been admiring him in silence for a while. “But once you have paid your respects, nothing keeps you from standing tall, with your head held high, just like this.”

Cedric huffs at him. “And when, pray tell, have you become an expert in human diplomacy?”

“Last night.”

Cedric's serious demeanour drops in an amused snort. “Of course you did,” he says, and he chuckles, a sound as airy and sweet as a wind-chime, that Wormwood thought lost forever to his ears. “Still, I'm not sure how it would help.”

Wormwood gestures for him to come closer. He offers him a hand, unsure if he will take it or not. “Just walk to me, the way you do it when we sing. The dancing part.”

“Oh! My, it's been a while...” the sorcerer whines, but he steps forward carrying himself tightly, and his hand alights to Wormwood's fingers like a little bird on a branch.

As it did before, the touch of glove on the raven's skin feels almost supernaturally warm. A distant tune plays in his ears, and he's certain Cedric can hear it too, as Wormwood slowly turns on his heels, guiding the sorcerer in a slow circle around him.

“ _Whenever things go wrong_ ,” Wormwood hums, following the rhythm, moving his free hand behind his back, a hopeful smirk tugging at his face.

“ _King Roland simply stands and claims_ ,” Cedric sings back immediately, his airy voice even lighter through his laugh, following the faint clacking of his heels on the stone.

He changes their handhold to palm to palm, and moves his own free hand behind his back. He can dance very well, Wormwood knows. He is fond of those old court dances he has learnt early in his youth, at the very school Sofia and her siblings waste their days at. Every so often, Cedric takes a spin around the workshop, with only the raven's perch as a partner.

In one voice, they finish, “ _It must be Cedric that's to blame~!”_

Instinctively, Wormwood lifts their joined hands up, and lets Cedric pivot on his toes, free hands moving in the same breath to join in a perfect, graceful flutter at the end of the spin.

 _Well, now I am here_ , Wormwood thinks, and the joy the thought gives him lingers like a physical touch, even after Cedric's hands have flown away from his.

“Did we just _duet_?” the sorcerer asks, incredulous, the little bit of colour in his cheeks shaving decades off his smile. Like this, he doesn't look regal, or dignified, or indifferent. Even pale and exhausted, he looks beautiful, the way a clear eventide sky does. Wormwood feels again the urge to put his lips on the fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and thank them for existing.

“Indeed,” the raven says gravely, perplexed at the warm tinge of his own voice. “It was only a matter of time, I'm afraid.”

“Speaking of time,” Cedric says, forefinger raised, sniffing the air for new nuances in the potion smell. “I think it should be ready. _Finally_.”

With the aid of a big funnel, timing and methodical ladle-work, they fill up the biggest keg. Cedric screws the spout on tight and uses a levitation spell to shake it vigorously.

“This should be enough for the castle plots and patches,” he says, patting it with satisfaction. “Now, you take this first batch and start, and I'll go directly to the Community Garden, and we'll be done before anyone can bother us. Sounds like a plan?”

Wormwood shifts nervously. “You can't be too keen to go back to the village. That old man looked ready to light the pyre,” he says. “I should accompany you.”

“Psh.” Cedric shrugs. “What am I, a witch? This isn't the Dark Ages anymore, I don't need an escort.”

“I could just go myself,” Wormwood hears himself say, troubled. Aside from the village, now branded as _unsafe_ in his mind, the thought of being separated after they just reunited, of King Roland getting in the way...

“And let you get all the credit _again_? Nonsense,” Cedric rebuts, and Wormwood realizes he's missed his pettiness more than he misses flying with his own wings. “Besides, we'll be asked to split anyway, since everyone is in _such_ a hurry. Now, let's see, how are you going to carry this thing...”

His attention diverted to practical matters, Cedric squints at him until he figures out a way to strap the keg to Wormwood's back with a reasonable distribution of weight. That done, to the raven's surprise, he gives him the black Wand back. Or rather, he points at it and sighs.

“It's the only one I have available now, and since I cannot use it myself...” he trails off, fidgeting under Wormwood's befuddled stare. “You'll need to use a spell to direct the flow, since we're not using powder... and you don't want to take all day doing it by hand, do you? And it's a light enough spell, I shouldn't have any problems if you use it.”

Wormwood wants to ask him if it's really alright, but before he can gather himself enough to do it, Cedric starts to show him the wand-work needed, and he has to refocus. Cedric always teaches magic by example, no manhandling people into position the way Goodwyn does, and this time it's no exception. Wormwood appreciates.

Even if Wormwood cannot fathom why Cedric would just accept things the way they are now, the thought of this first, equal exchange keeps him company as he hurries down the stairs and outside, keg bouncing in the tight harness strapped to him.

He begins to irrigate the desolated castle crops with the hydrokinesis spell, spraying the newly sown seeds with the potion. If there's any left after the castle crops, he considers, he should cover the greenhouse too. There's not enough for the whole garden, but they are going to need ingredient restocking pretty soon too...

“Good job, there!” says a voice behind him, although not the one he was hoping for: the King, still _way_ too lively for the time of day. “I see you can hold your ground in potion-making as well, after all!”

“Cedric did the work,” Wormwood says, almost tiredly. “I mostly chopped up seaweed and reached for the high shelves.” _And made a considerable fool of myself._

At least the thing is working, Wormwood thinks. The seeds have already started to grow.

“I know you are too modest, Corax,” the King says, like being corrected barely registered in his mind. He crouches down to move a clump of dirt with his finger, letting a small sprout break through. “Remarkable! Baileywick has told me how difficult this actually is to accomplish, but I'm glad to see you've managed!”

Before Wormwood can get a word in, he continues, “My friend, I've been thinking. We would be delighted if you agreed to stay here with us. We could really use a sorcerer of your talent!”

“Your Royal Sorcerer isn't retiring, as far as I know,” Wormwood says, letting some menace grace his tone.

It is an offer that easily turns to his advantage, actually... and yet. What the King just implied has to go against some rule, at least some moral code? But Roland doesn't appear perturbed in the slightest.

“No, of course not, but listen: I know he mentored you, but honestly... I've wanted to give the man a break for a while now, you know?” he says, so earnest Wormwood _hates_ him. “Ever since we were young boys, he never seemed to adapt well to the stress of royal life. There's always something up with him... and speaking with you reminded me that these peaceful times are, indeed, a precarious luck.”

 _And now I know why I was born a raven,_ Wormwood thinks, the weight on his back suddenly three times heavier. _It was nature's way of suggesting I keep my damn mouth shut._

When the man in front of him was a young boy, the raven clearly remembers, he spent a great deal of his time and energy making sure Cedric _wouldn't_ adapt to royal life. Fuming, he resumes showering the plots in life-giving liquid, the King tailing him as he spiels on, unaware of how close Wormwood is to grabbing him and shoving a curse down his throat.

 _You're lucky I'm running on borrowed power,_ the raven thinks, shaking the canister on his back to assess how much he has left. _You owe Cedric your life now. Only eight and a half times to go._

“Our kingdom is doing well, it wouldn't be a problem at all to support a second sorcerer,” the King continues, walking briskly at his side as Wormwood marches back to make sure he's covered the whole thing. “A _shadow_ , if you will, someone reliable, who would be able to handle actual danger. Without fainting. How about that?”

And to think the day started almost good. Almost normal. He woke to Cedric's touch, they didn't argue, no flinching, the potion didn't explode, they ended up _duetting_. Setting off alone was hard, but he managed, telling himself they'd be able to talk more later, without hurry, without interruptions.

But then the King had to come in, and let him know that just trying to understand how everything works in this place, he has managed to harm Cedric's reputation. _Again_.

Maybe he isn't made to live as a human, and abide by their incomprehensible rules. He would have made a lousy Royal Advisor, not to mention a lousy King. What had got into him, when he made his wishes? Maybe he should really migrate, like the rabbit suggested.

The mere thought makes him feel like his chest is being wretched open, but... it really seems that every step he takes damages Cedric some way or another.

“I am finished here,” he says dryly, teeth clenched. Without another look at the King, he flicks the drops from his wet wand, and stalks off to the greenhouse.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out they're both creeps. Creeps who duet.
> 
> Christmas update!!


	13. Ghosts of Summer Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, yet again, tension and carriage rides go hand in hand.  
> (contains mentions of underage frolicking)

 

It's only after a few minutes, spent espying Roland as he mutters to himself― _Bit of an unmannered fellow, that Corax, isn't he? Easily offended_ ―that Cedric gathers his courage enough to come out from behind the column. Mimicking his hesitation, the small army of enchanted barrels hops shyly behind him.

"Good morrow, Your Majesty," he announces, cringing at how timid and high his voice sounds. Roland still jumps, and it bolsters him a bit. He clears his throat importantly. "As requested, I shall at once go to the village and take care of the Community Garden. If you believe I can handle it without fainting, of course."

Roland's eyebrows shoot up, and it takes Cedric a moment to realize what just spewed from his mouth. Scrabbling to own his own boldness, he crosses his arms and does his best to hold Roland's gaze.

"Oh, I wasn't..." the King starts, having the decency to be the first to look away in embarrassment.

As he steps forward, to avoid folding in too soon, Cedric pictures the day he will slam a cell door in his face. _Now you have been replaced!_ he could leer at him. _Good one, yes, I should write it down_. Sustained by the mental image, he holds his chin up and his shoulders back, even though it makes him feel like he's taking in just a third of the air he needs to live.

"Well, I see you have everything ready, yes," Roland says, clearing his throat a couple of times, leaning needlessly to the side to check the canisters that align behind the sorcerer's legs. "Excellent, let's grab the coach then, and we're off to the village."

Cedric feels his feet grow cold as ice in his shoes. "I-I can go myself," he stutters in near-panic, waving his hands. "It is no trouble."

"Nonsense! A King's duty is to his people," Roland says with forced cheerfulness, throwing a light punch in the air. "Also, I have a plan."

And of course, as usual, Cedric has to yield. If he had to imagine something comparable to going someplace alone with Roland, he would say it's a tie between spending spring break with Father and his fifth year Alchemy final. Oh, the memories.

Last spring too, when the Community Garden was in need of a magical nudge, Roland tagged along as if he were really going to help. _He comes just to improvise speeches and get all the credit_ , Cedric thinks sullenly, as he levitates the kegs into the coach and climbs in the seat across from the King. Once again, takeoff seems to take forever.

"Blimey!" Roland exclaims once they're finally up in the air, startling Cedric from his brooding. He's gesturing at him to come look out the window on his side, pointing down. "I know the Autumn Equinox is tonight, but our island sure hasn't wasted a moment, has it?"

Wondering what in the world is the man talking about, Cedric leans forward to look. The gardens' usual shades of bright green are now a patchwork of brown and yellow, almost blindingly bright through the mist under the steely, overcast sky. He hopes Roland isn't about to ask him to find a fix for the whole of it; he would have to stay cooped up in the tower, brewing sleepless, for a week straight.

"It's not just the island," he points out, diverting the King's attention to the great radius of the early fall unwinding under their gaze.

The thick woods that surround the village, too, seem to have skipped one or two months on the calendar: most trees are completely bare. Even the firs. Fairly unnatural, and even more for harvest season. _This can't all be the bad weather_ , he reasons, scrutinizing the grounds for unusual signs. If he squints, he can see a shock of green through the dense fog in that forsaken area, beyond the maze... but it might be a trick of the light. _It has to be,_ he tells himself, a bad feeling crawling up his back.

"There is something really odd about all this," Roland mutters, two inches from his ear. Cedric scrambles back in his seat, as discreetly as possible. He had forgotten where he was for a moment. "I don't like it."

Roland gives him a glance, taking a breath like he wants to tell him something else. When he looks outside again, his gaze falls straight to the spot of green beyond the maze.

The previous Queen's resting place isn't the only thing hidden away in that part of the gardens, and they both know it. Does the King remember, the tragic misfire of his wishes? _Never stir up the past_ is one of the unspoken rules between them, and Cedric knows that if he breaks it, he'd be disrupting their precarious balance at his own risk.

"That old Well, Your Majesty," he probes, the looming feeling of uncertainty more intolerable than the King's wrath. "It is still asleep, isn't it?"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Roland looks like someone dropped an ice cube into his collar.

They were only boys when they discovered the Wishing Well. Prince Roland was chasing him, angry at something, all throughout the gardens... but when the Well spoke to them, he grabbed Cedric's arm so tight it had gone numb by the end of the Well's spiel. In a matter of seconds, the Prince had gone from scared to entranced. He pulled a coin from his pocket, ready to try out the discovery they had made.

But Cedric could sense some strange magic energy radiating from the thing, making his nose and the back of his neck itch. _Let me ask Father about this_ , he said, in a bout of prudence that surprised both, and stood his ground as Roland tried his clumsy hand at persuasion, pressing him into the Well's stone edge as he twisted his numb arm back.

It led to Father putting an enchanted padlock on the Well's slab, to Roland the First scolding them both, and to the Prince leaving Cedric trapped in the castle escalator for the whole night in retaliation.

"Actually," Roland says gingerly, after a while, "Amber happened to wake it, some time ago."

Cedric's heart skips a beat. "Is it granting wishes again, then?" he rushes to ask, swallowing a suspicion strong enough to wring his guts like damp rags. _But it doesn't work,_ he thinks forcefully, _the magic has run out, it doesn't work anymore._

Roland's lips tighten, thinning over his teeth. "Not anymore. I was able to use my... second wish to fix Amber's, so that it would turn Sofia back to her human self, without drawbacks. Then I forbade the Well from granting anymore wishes."

"But... that Well isn't made to work without drawbacks," Cedric argues. _Or to obey Kings._

Roland lays a hard stare on him, one he cannot make himself hold. "I would _know_ , wouldn't I?" he hisses through his teeth.

It was only years after his and Cedric's accidental discovery that Roland visited the Well again.

When the health of King Roland the First started declining, he chose to abdicate. The throne befell Prince Roland and not Princess Matilda, and the Prince and his Queen-to-be grew worried enough about their childless marriage― _barren_ , Mother called it, a word that tasted dry and hopeless―to resort to the Wishing Well.

Cedric, the last person Roland would go to for his personal matters, only knows the story in bits and pieces, from the whispers he's heard and his own deductions. He knows not which of them made the wish, or if it was joint, or what was paid for it. All he knows is that the new Queen cut her golden braid, and that the wishes came true: not even a month after the Crown was passed on, her pregnancy was announced. The kingdom rejoiced.

The drawbacks, however, were tragic.

The wish gave the Queen a twin birth she could not survive. And that very same night, the moment the grieving young King put his newborns' to his ailing father's withered lips, so that he may kiss them into their new life, Roland the First breathed his last on their foreheads instead. Two lives, for two lives.

"So it _is_ granting wishes," Cedric mutters, shuddering in his seat. "Like I just said."

 _This is how Sofia was transformed, that time she came to the lair in a cat form... oh,_ he thinks, overcome by the daunting realization. _Oh no. Wormwood._ He has to fight the need to put his head in his hands and give in to panic. _But it cannot be... he couldn't... he would never be that stupid..._

"We're here," Roland says, in a tone of finality. Conversation over, if it can be called a conversation.

Cedric takes a breath, and forces himself to focus. "Are we landing?"

"Not quite," Roland says, a strained smile and his index raised. "Last time it took all day, right? So this time I figured it will be much quicker if we just _fly_ over. You'll direct the stream with magic―just like Corax did, you know―and I will make sure you don't fall off. We'll be done in a matter of minutes!"

Very casually, the King opens his door to wave at the people below. An enthusiastic cheer rises up to greet him. Cedric's mind, whirred to a halt at Roland's words, restarts slowly. What does he mean―how exactly does he plan to prevent him from falling...?

The answer comes sooner than he'd like. The King gathers the seatbelt on his side, gestures for him to rise from his seat and come closer, and hands him the belt to fasten around his waist.

"This is why I wanted to accompany you, see? Perfectly safe," he says, tightening the knot himself. Then, to Cedric's distress, he slips a hand between the makeshift security line and his back, and gathers the loose end in his free hand, like a length of rope. "A trick from my rock-climbing days!"

 _It must be a miracle you've survived those,_ Cedric answers him, even if only in his head. If anyone were ever to doubt James being Roland's son, this moment could be brought up as counterargument. Roland seems absolutely certain that, in case he falls, he'll be able to reel in Cedric's entire weight with the strength of a single arm. The thought makes him lightheaded for a moment, and forget to be offended.

"I have got to ask, Cedric: you _are_ sure you won't faint today, right?" the King asks in a serious tone. The grip on the belt tightens. Cedric, hyperaware of the four knuckles pressing into his spine, just nods absently. "Alright then! Ready?"

Faintly, he tries, "Your Majesty..."

"Don't worry, though, it would be fine even if you were to fall: there is hay over there, see? Just like when we used to play derby and―" he halts, and trails off.

Cedric, suddenly washed over with distant memories of _flying lessons_ , of a much younger Roland telling him the exact same thing, opens the door on his side a bit too forcefully. Plunging down into the freshly ploughed soil below would certainly be less painful than recalling those times, he thinks. But it's too late.

It was a different time, years ago, when they still were all in potential, when nothing felt like it was set in stone.

In their youth, Roland couldn't seem to decide if he wanted a little brother to play with, a personal servant at his beck and call, or a punch bag to dump his frustration on.

All throughout their teen years, the third would often prevail; then, all of a sudden, it came a strange, rainy summer, with the smell of change and wet hay that swept over their heads like a peal. It brought a tentative closeness, that never quite grew into trust; it brought Roland's voice, that stopped cracking so much sooner than his own did, and Roland's hands that had grown before the rest of him, big and clumsy and unaware of all their touch could ruin.

It takes only a moment to see the fault in Roland's plan. As the King shouts instructions to the coachman, Cedric has to shoot his arm out to hold the door open against the wind, and crouch low on the carriage floor to direct the spray down in a wave pattern that can cover most of the Community Garden in one go. Fortunately, he has never been scared of heights and, aided by survival instinct and the fact that he cannot see Roland watching him, at least his spell works just fine.

After a while, even if he's doing it while half-dangling from a flying coach, the task allows for a sort of transfixion to descend on him. Focused on casting, he just distantly feels the King's grip adjust a couple of times. First, it's a two-handed hold on the makeshift lifeline; then it's an arm directly encompassing his middle. He doesn't quite notice, until Roland speaks.

"I _might_ not have thought this all the way through," he admits, his exhale chilling Cedric's ear. Cedric's hand slips and the coach door almost slams back in his face. Roland hauls him back in, the tug of his arm like a punch in the diaphragm. "Can you still manage?"

"O-of course," Cedric wheezes. He just collapsed the previous day, and he isn't in exactly top shape, but he knows the lightheadedness he feels now has nothing to do with lack of oxygen.

 _You're alive!_ a much younger Roland yells from a memory, _Damn, I said the hay was there if you were to fall, but I didn't think you'd really―are you alright?_

The forbidden swearword that graced his heated exclamation made Cedric snort out the hay in his mouth. _I'm your Royal Sorcerer_ , he said importantly, puffing his chest out. _Nothing can kill me._

 _Right._ As soon as he made sure Cedric hadn't broken his neck in the fall, the Prince snickered. _You sure are sturdier than you look!_

Half a jab, half a compliment. It still was enough to make Cedric's cheeks heat up. The young Prince's voice had some undefined awe in it, and his eyes took in the whole of him, as sunlight bathing a blade of grass. _He said I'm strong_ , Cedric thought, coherency blinking in and out of function.

In that moment, anything Roland may have asked, he would have delivered.

His superhuman luck and resilience was all he had that was truly _his_ ―so he thought at the time―and he would take an almost morbid delight in testing them. He would have taken any dare if it held the promise of praise and respect, like a trophy to be won once the pain was gone and hidden, and he'd do it with a recklessness that bordered on self-destruction. _Maybe this is what Father calls a sorcerer's loyalty_ , he used to theorize.

Prince Roland, who could be as courteous as they come when the mood struck, reached one of those big hands to him, and Cedric took it with just a smidge of hesitation. Always the jester, instead of helping him up, Roland let himself fall over him, as if the tug of Cedric's hand had been enough to pull him off balance.

 _Ow_ , Roland said, laughing and only half-wrestling him in the spiky hay, on his spiky adolescent bones. _Ceddy, you're like a bed of nails._

 _Consider getting off me then, my Prince?_ he replied dryly, shoving. _And ew, don't call me that._

 _You've got hay in your hair_ , Roland said then, too quietly for a simple observation. He had laughed at nothing, a moment after, his handsome princely laugh ruined by that snort at the end, that his father the King often chided him for.

But there was no snort that time, the laugh was subdued, tinged with nervousness. He started plucking the straws from Cedric's hair, one by one, while the huffing and flapping of their winged horses nearby fell away from Cedric's mind, as though the Prince were plucking away the noises and thoughts as well, slipping them from his head one by one. They fell into an unknown, fluttering stillness, and Cedric found himself holding his breath.

Roland's boyish face sobered up. _Father has given me a portrait of my betrothed,_ he said, almost casually.

 _Will you keep it in a locket?_ Cedric asked. _Is she very beautiful?_ he didn't ask. He could already picture her: a refined beauty, perfect in every way, with golden mermaid-hair and a sweet smile that would melt the Prince's heart. It hurts, almost, having guessed with such accuracy.

 _I don't know. I don't even know her,_ Roland said. He looked away. _I don't want to marry someone I don't even know._

Almost rhetorically, Cedric rebutted, _Tell your father._

Roland laughed at the inside joke. _As if he'd listen._ And Cedric just hummed in sympathy, relaxing a fraction under the heavy warm expanse of the Prince's body.

 _I wish I could marry someone I've known for a while._ Roland's stout fingers found his gloveless hand, the skin of his knuckles bitten thick, and held it like it meant something. He leaned down, rubbing a squeak out of their muddy leather boots. _Someone I like._

 _But... I'm your Royal Sorcerer,_ Cedric protested, the only certainty in his emptied mind. _And you don't even like me_ , he didn't say.

Roland just laughed again, his laugh even more small and nervous. When the straws were over, as though it were inevitable, Roland's weight pressed him down into the hay, and their mouths fell together.

 _My very own Royal Sorcerer_ , the Prince whispered into his lips, like he were breathing life into him. Cedric still recalls the current that shot through his whole body at the contact, the weight of their hands as they hung from their wrists, both unsure of what to do with them. The deep ache it set inside him, to feel needed for the first time. _My one and only._

There were other times, of course. A summer of midnight secrets and hushed fumbling, where the Prince's mouth hadn't been the only taste he got acquainted with. He knew it was hopeless, from the very start. But sweet dreams cost nothing, and he fell into it as readily as he fell to his knees. _So there is one thing you're good for, after all_ , Roland told him, half a jab and half a compliment, fingers shaping to his head, pulling in, mussing the parting line of his hair.

When, as summers always do, it had to end, his heart didn't break: it just dried up, growing hard and brittle as a withered sapling, the Prince's taste forever bitter in his mouth.

Blinking a couple of times, Cedric shakes the empty canisters, and leans out to check if the whole crop is covered. On the far edge, where they started, the soil is already crawling with fast-growing sprouts. The moment of recollection fades as it came, as a rain puddle on a hot day.

"Look, it's working," Roland points out, the people waving at him and cheering. He waves back, and nudges him in the side with the crook of his elbow. "Say _hi_ , Cedric."

"Apologies, my hands are full," he evades, spelling the empty kegs in a line on the carriage floor, a white-knuckled grip on his wand. It isn't him they're cheering for, anyway.

Roland shrugs and, loud in his ear, reminds the villagers that the Autumn Equinox shall not be stopped by any force of nature, and that a feast will definitely take place at the castle, a feast to which they're all invited. The people cheer even louder.

As King and sorcerer resume proper distance, Roland finally closes the coach door. He is still smiling from ear to ear.

"See? We were done in a moment! Good job, Cedric!" He pats his shoulder, making him choke on the yawn he couldn't hold in anymore.

"My apologies," Cedric says, the second time in the span of a minute.

"No need," Roland says, waving his hand. "It was a long night of work, I've been told? I'm relieved everything worked. Pleasantly surprised, in fact."

Cedric sighs. His potions have a much higher success rate than his spells, but he knows better than to argue: he would be upsetting the balance even more, overstepping some other unspoken rule. And it is so much worse, when Roland expresses some semblance of care and recognition of his work, the earnest note in his tone as pure as lead glass. It is nothing but propriety, and the promise of dashed hopes.

"It was no trouble," he murmurs, busying himself with the safety belt still tied around his waist. Maybe Wormwood was right, saying he always downplays what he does. And slouches like he's trying to disappear. But with the phantom of Roland's touch printed in old and new memories like a brand, he feels like every part of his body is attached wrong, and he cannot coordinate his hands even to untie a simple knot. He glances outside in discomfort.

They're flying over the river, where his dam, at least, seems to be holding up fine. The King leans out the window to encourage the workers, who are still finicking around it, and Cedric can't help but shrink in his seat, and pray he's not seen. The belt won't come loose, so he crosses his arms over it, sullen.

"Blimey, the current is still so fast," Roland says, still looking down. "Look at it go! Good thing you didn't fall in yesterday. At this rate, we would have fished you out three kingdoms over."

Cedric glances back at him. "I... didn't fall in?"

"Oh, no, Corax ran there before you could touch the water, and he―what's it called? You two just― _puff_!―disappeared. He was remarkably fast, like he had wings!"

Cedric feels his back break out in cold sweat. Wormwood pulled off a successful two-person Transport charm, purely out of instinct. _He did it with my energy_ , he thinks, stunned. No wonder it took a toll.

"And the guards told me they've seen him reappear at the gate," Roland continues, gesturing. "They said he looked like a ghost was on his heels or something, really worried. And that you weren't looking too well either."

Too low for Roland to hear, Cedric mutters, "Now, here's an understatement."

Back in the workshop, the circumstances called for Wormwood to have a wand. Putting the very one he has stolen back in his hand meant putting there his new, still raw trust as well. But Wormwood is doing well, not abusing the power at all: Cedric could feel him use the spell he taught him, nothing more. If Wormwood was as distressed as they say, he ponders, maybe he really wasn't aware of what he was doing... could the raven be just as trapped as he is in this link system Father mentioned?

"I never knew you had such a reliable and talented friend. I always thought you were kind of a loner, at school," the King is saying, blunt. The man still has so much of the young Prince Cedric used to know in him, and maybe that's the problem. "You should have brought him to court sooner!"

Steering towards the castle, the carriage briefly falters in the current.

"He... wasn't ready," Cedric evades. "It was quite the surprise when he showed up, actually. He can be a bit... brash, and difficult. One could say... he's not used to being around huma―I mean, people."

"Hm, must be a sorcerer thing," Roland mutters. "What I meant earlier, when you overheard me... it doesn't matter if the fellow is a bit odd: he has talent, charm, and is well liked at court. Unless he has a previous engagement I haven't been told about, there's really no reason for you to oppose him staying here and helping you."

Cedric's mouth dries up. They've known him for two days, and they find him _charming_ , and admire his borrowed talent. How quaint.

"With all due respect, Your Majesty," he starts, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice, "it didn't quite sound like you were getting me _help_."

The King tenses, his back going as stiff as a wooden board. "Cedric, come on, we all know that you're not—" he halts, and shutters of propriety close behind his eyes. "I mean, you've always been... inconstant."

For a moment, Cedric had let himself slip into memories of a different time, a different life. An era where his mistakes hadn't yet piled up in this daunting tower, this decade of service that got everyone convinced he is barely worth his allowance. If they could be rid of him, they'd rejoice―he can already hear the countless voices say, _Yes, yes of course the lad isn't cut for this, I knew all along._ And he, too, should have known, but it's not like he ever had a choice, did he?

"It has been a rough couple of days, I cannot deny," Cedric admits. Then, his voice a raw, exposed whisper, he dares, "But... all that changed in the past year... does it count for naught?"

"We all thought things were getting better, yes," Roland says dryly. "But we never know if we can rely on you or not... and frankly, it was clear from the start that this role was going to be too much for you."

Cedric's hands clench over his arms, fingers sinking in the sleeves of his robe. He wants to list his accomplishments and throw them back in the King's face, make him admit he's wrong about him, and always has been. If Sofia were here, she'd tell him, she wouldn't let her father sit there and tell him he's been nothing but a dragging weight for all these years. But he can't do it himself: his mind is an empty, barren land, and he can remember none of his own merits.

"Does my track record bring shame to the great house of Winslow?" he bristles, when the sting grows too painful to bear, for a moment unafraid of the consequences. It's a risky and desperate reach, combing Roland's flawless reputation for cracks. "You'd have me think you're doing this for _my_ sake, and not for your own prestige?"

On the King's face, every trace of good mood has disappeared. As he inhales, he splays his fingers tensely, in controlled exasperation.

" _Why_ do you always think everyone is against you?" Roland asks him, his voice filled with a strange frustration. "Ever since we were children―"

"Because everyone _is_ ," Cedric strains, quietly and a bit too forcefully for what would be proper. After all the boundaries they blurred in their youth, it became so unnatural, to interact without anyone as buffer between them. Cedric thought he could compensate, bowing over-zealously and dressing his words in oil, as if it could wash the Prince's taste from his mouth. And now he has interrupted _the King_ ―"No one thinks I'm fit for my job, don't pretend you don't _see_ ―everyone, everyone expects―"

"We expect _competence_!" Roland says, harsh and forceful. A chill runs down Cedric's spine at his tone, and the belt still around him seems to tighten by a tenfold, smothering. "And the respect we owe to Goodwyn's lineage cannot account for neglecting the safety of this kingdom. There is no shame in admitting your shortcomings, and you should be _aware_ you are not in the position to reject help when it is offered to you."

"I―he doesn't even have a _licence_!" Cedric chokes out, attacking the knot again, humiliation and anger scathing his insides. "Has he told you that?!"

"He's told us he's a private student, so what? It's reproachful that you would slander your own pupil like this," Roland rebuts, raising a hand in front of him when he sucks in a breath to protest. "All I know is that when the stakes were at their highest, you have faltered. The example set by your father―"

"Oh, I see what this is all about," Cedric hisses, low so the coachman won't hear, face burning and hands chilled, clutching the belt with bone-white fists. " _If only Goodwyn where here instead of me_ , right?"

The memories come, inescapable as grasping talons, and for both of them there's no keeping them at bay, no distraction, no way around.

A decade prior, it's the middle of another summer, the middle of another night. The twins are early, wishes racing against time to let them meet the ailing King Roland I, and the Royal Physician and his assistants dart around like white, ghostly grasshoppers in their nightshirts, shouting contrasting orders.

At the centre of the sickroom, the cauldron's cloud of smoke a furnace on his fevered face, Cedric stirs and mixes and tries to keep up with the dozens of different things they're demanding of him at once.

Desperately, he attempts to focus on what he's doing, and tune out the rest of the room― _make it faster, add this, faster; this is hopeless, Your Majesty; Goodwyn would have done it! Call for him, call for him now―there is no time, Your Majesty... quick, she's in agony, for pity's sake!_ ―the rows and rows of staring eyes, pale faces wavering like ghosts in the trembling candlelight. Even though the skin won't fissure, his gloveless hands are bright red and swollen from gripping the scorching metal ladle, from shredding nettle and ivy leaves. All is for nothing.

She has been Roland's wife for eight years, and Queen for eight months. Her hair is cut short still, a golden halo on sweat-soaked pillows, her smile is sweet and fierce, and Roland loves her. _Bury me you know where_ , she whispers, as though her demise had been nothing but the expected outcome. It will be clear, in due time, that she has paid her life for their wish, in the pledge of the golden braid that was her pride and joy. She clutches the young King's hand, and clings to life until he has nodded, promised he will honour her will. Her gritted smile ebbs, falls, and she is no more.

It all unfolds before Cedric's eyes, and he has no power over the weight of fate. The quiet sound of her last breath will echo in the room for days, in his dreams for years.

Then―among the mutter and sob of the onlookers, and before the loud, piercing cry of two perfect newborns, seven minutes apart―it's the cauldron kicked across the room, and Roland's fist in Cedric's collar― _If only... if only Goodwyn had been here instead of you!―_ his mouth twisted into a howl of agony, screaming, screaming.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Roland hisses through his teeth, dangerously low. He glances at the coachman, who steers peaceful and unaware. Roland, too, is still holding his end of the belt, but he lets go of it in a harsh gesture, like a whiplash, to point his finger. "Don't you dare bring _those times_ into this. It's been ten years, I've made peace with it... accepted that you just didn't have what it would have taken to save her―if I dare think you _could_ have, my sanity will desert me."

And for a moment he, too, looks like he spoke too much.

All that was left of their shared youth―the long years of childhood quarrels, the tension and the brief spells of sunlight, that one strange summer doomed to end in tears, and the years after it that rolled away too fast, until they were in roles they weren't entirely ready for―has been beaten into the dust by the first years of the twins' lives.

Every time one of them coughed or sneezed, it was full-blown panic, and the same nightmare all over again. Father came to threaten that, if he was summoned to the palace to concoct a cold remedy _one more time,_ he would have Hexley Hall suspend Cedric's licence. Nevermind the difference between finding a miracle cure for the unknown under pressure, and brewing a remedy for a common seasonal ailment could fill three volumes in Mother's spindly handwriting.

"So this _is_ about you, after all," Cedric hisses back. He pulls his wand, and finally just zaps the tight belt off himself.

Roland pretends he hasn't spoken, an unpleasant flush up his neck, his hands balled into fists balanced on his knees like rocks on a cliffside. The conversation is over, and even if Roland was the first to bring the past into it, Cedric knows he's not allowed to reply anymore. They don't look at each other for the rest of the trip.

Cedric trains his gaze out of the window, arms clenched over his middle, bitterness like a great swamp soling everything inside him. Stupid feasts and power plays to be damned, he should have stayed in bed, gotten himself a good rest, instead of slaving for the whims of these ingrates.

Distantly, at the blurry corner of his eye, a formation of three black shapes plays in the sky.

* * *

 

Wormwood sulks for the rest of the morning.

It's lunchtime when he finishes with the greenhouse, as the work there needs to be more methodical, vase by vase.

Once he's done, he opens the buckles and lets the canister topple to the ground, stretching and rolling his shoulders. If there's any consolation, the potion endeavour has been a success: the servants have been marvelling at the growing plants since they sprouted. Eerily reminiscent of the instant growth of his blackberry bramble―still hidden, drying the soil to the bone―Wormwood hasn't stayed to watch. But he cannot stay in the gardens too long either: he doesn't feel like being in the middle of the hustle and bustle once it's time to harvest the now fruitful crops.

With the last drops of potion, he grows himself some loquats to snack on and pretends they are enough, bored to death but still too riled up to go back to the castle.

Just a few minutes after he walked away from the King, he saw a carriage take flight. The King must have accompanied Cedric to the village, otherwise the small escort of guards would have had no reason to be there. The thought of the two of them in their box in the sky all morning―he presumes―nags him and nags him until his middle grows tense, and his mood dark. He can't even finish the fruit. He sighs and pockets the remaining loquats, his head aflutter with thoughts.

Human beings that can talk, maybe they too can finally set their things straight, he thinks sullenly. Would it make Cedric happy, to have more human connections, like Sofia does? It's wrong for them to only have one, he reminds himself. But he cannot help but feel wretched by the mere thought of it. Is it like the rabbit said? Do his wants go even beyond friendship and pair-bonds? He doesn't even know what _is_ beyond that.

He looks up, because it relieves the strange pressure behind his eyes, that won't go away no matter how much he rubs the back of his hand against his eyelids. He gazes into the steely sky above and, just barely, he catches sight of a dark shape.

His breath hitches. Is it the coach, finally on the flight back?

It's not, he realises almost immediately. The weather is not exceptional for visibility, but his eyesight is still sharp. There are three black winged forms in the sky, and he doesn't want to believe what he's seeing. Was the rabbit right? he asks himself, staring up at what are, unmistakeably, other ravens. Was Clover right about _everything_? He feels the whole of his skin break out in goosebumps, hackles rising.

"Here he is!" caws one of the ravens, once they're near enough. "The flesh-raven, now a flesh-man!"

"How dare you come here?!" he shouts, and he doesn't care if he's not supposed to be strict about his territory for the rules of his species. He feels the intrusion like an assault to his own person, a disrespect that fires up the anger inside him―and just like he wants Roland away from Cedric, he wants these impudents away from his home.

"The red fox has told the forest about you," another says, joining the first in circling and sneering. "And we were there to listen."

"Isn't it time you leave this to someone who can handle it?" asks the first.

The third adds, "Someone who can at least fly!"

"This is still _mine_ , and I will handle it as I please!" Wormwood yells to the sky, teeth bared. "Begone!"

No one dared violate his turf right under his nose before. Just like the King, stealing away his companion without any reason―but he cannot maul the King, so he'll set for mauling the invaders.

The ravens soar elegantly overhead, laughing, and Wormwood dashes after them on foot, crossing the deserted orchards, seeing nothing but their sneering faces, hearing nothing but their hoarse, mocking calls. When he sees the coast approaching, he doesn't see an insurmountable boundary—he only thinks, _Good, a perfect takeoff_.

The feeling of his toes digging into the dry grass and crumbly soil―as he pushes his foot on the edge of the cliff and leaps into the air―is something primal, something he's missed with every fibre of his being. He has barely the time to feel the rush of wind like a blissful caress over his velvet-clad body, his cape unravelling in billowing folds, the leap of gravity in his heart.

Then, he weights like a man, and not like a bird: his bones are not hollow, and he has no strong wings to hold him up. The feeling of loss pains him more than realising he'll plunge down, straight into the foamy waves crashing on the rocks below.

A distant voice, almost indistinguishable from the rush of the fall in his ears, and the merciless cackle of the departing rivals, shouts his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JFC, Wormwood.


	14. Old Friend - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an eyelash in your eye is a big deal if you got claws.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for chapter 4 happenings, and the general way Cedric processes things that happen to him tbh.

 

Just like the river, the sea never comes up to meet him.

Crackling and tingling of a levitation spell around him, Wormwood is suspended in mid-air, hung by the scruff like a wolf pup. _Am I dreaming?_ he finds himself wondering, once again, as he looks down at the limp floating of his own feet.

On the clifftop, out of the corner of his eye, he can espy someone standing. It is a slight figure, arms lifted and fingers arched as grabbing talons, shaking from head to toe with the effort of holding him up. _Cedric,_ he thinks distantly.

The sorcerer tries to pull Wormwood up, falters, and finally resorts to hauling him back in one go. It's too hasty to aim, and in the blink of an eye the raven slams into the trunk of a bare apple tree.

Air knocked out of him, the kick of adrenaline still in his nerves and his neck aching from the whiplash, he feels the last leaves come fluttering down over his collapsed form as he lies there, face to the sky, taste of blood in his mouth, eyes closed. _Guess I'm not dreaming_.

In his foggy mind, the rival ravens are vultures, circling over him, waiting for him to die. _And the carrion bird became the feast._ He can hear quick, light steps in the grass, and the flutter of laboured breathing, hissing imprecations in a flurry. It is the drowned deer he met in the river, the night he ran away: it has come to feast upon his stricken body, rotten and dripping, in retaliation for all his cruelties. Wormwood coughs, lying in pain, head full of fog, tree roots digging into his back. He jolts when a hand brushes his.

"Wormwood," Cedric calls, in a breathless squeak. The hand ghosts over him, swatting a stray leaf from his brow, and goes to nudge his shoulder. He can feel it shake. All the raven can let out in answer is a vague grumble.

"What in the world were you trying to do?" Cedric hisses, right after a huge sigh of relief, still out of breath. "Honestly, can I leave for _one_ moment without you getting in trouble?"

"Look at who's talking," Wormwood coughs out. He tongues the inside of his cheek, where his sharp teeth have nicked the flesh. "You sound like you've run a marathon."

He opens his eyes, and looks skywards; the trio of rivals has flown off, but their mocking caws still ring in Wormwood's ears, and for a moment he cannot speak. They'll be back, he knows. And he knows that somehow, it doesn't really matter; having come to the castle at all is enough offence, and one time is already too many.

"Alright, yes, we all agree I'm―a second rate good for nothing who can't save anyone," Cedric snaps, and Wormwood is not all the way sure he is, right then, talking to him. "So be _careful,_ will you?"

Wormwood sighs. He's about to snark back, _Was it a pleasant time, flying in good company?_ But then he looks over, and sees Cedric's face, and he's glad that for once he waited before letting his mouth run.

"What happened to _you_?" he says, pulling seated with a grunt, taking in how Cedric's hair sticks down to his temples with sweat. The sorcerer's face is a wan mask of anxiety, blotched red with more than the exertion still labouring his breath. A hand is pressed to his heaving chest, and the rim of his eyes is lined in red.

"Nothing," Cedric yelps, flinching like a startled cat. He lets out a sigh that is more of a sniffle, and rubs self-consciously at his face and neck. "A-actually, the endeavour has been a complete success! The village will be able to harvest soon and I... I've seen you did a good job here too, so the feast is saved, and―"

" _Cedric_ ," Wormwood interjects, and the alien sound of his own name in the raven's mouth seems to bring the rambling to a halt. Firm and quiet, the raven follows, "What did he _do_?"

"Who?" Cedric tries, fingers gripping and releasing his wand for a few moments. Wormwood just _looks_ at him. In that hurried way of when he can't keep things bottled up anymore, he finally caves in, "Oh, nothing new. Just... old memories came up."

Wormwood hums. "Not good ones, I take."

"Quite the―" Face buried in both hands, he sighs out, "Oh, Wormy, the _worst_ ones. You wanted me to say it? There, I said it."

"Oh? _Oh_ ," the raven gasps in disbelief, "but... he _still_ ―? It's been ten years already, has it not?"

Cedric frees a hand to splay it in vague helplessness. "Indeed, it has."

He glances up, between his fingers, catching the last of the departing flock.

"I didn't mean to slam you in the tree," he mutters then, apologetic. "Your weight caught me off guard, and made me overcompensate my levitation spell."

"Such a lousy rescue," Wormwood huffs, going along with the change of topic. He stretches his back with a few satisfying pops that make the sorcerer wince. "Almost like that time you tried to catch me and we _both_ fell into the fountain."

A crinkly-eyed grin hides behind Cedric's hand at the memory. "I didn't mean to freeze you, that time," he says sheepishly. "I was aiming at the griffin."

"Aren't we a reckless lot." Wormwood huffs from his nose. "But... thanks for catching me mid-air twice, regardless of outcome. A bird appreciates."

"You're... welcome." Cedric hesitates, something hanging unsaid. "Speaking of birds... I saw ravens from the coach window, earlier. Is that what you were trying to...? Do you just...  _miss flying_?"

Wormwood feels his face twitch in revulsion. It's like he had asked him _do you miss breathing air_ when they became sea creatures. He doesn't know what he misses. One of his eyes starts to itch uncomfortably.

"Just trying to keep pests out of my turf," he grumbles. A bit aggressively, he inquires, "How were you able to catch me with such impeccable timing? I thought you were busy in the village."

Cedric leans away, and in the split second it takes for his expressive face to change, the glimpse of hurt hardens in a frown. "I came looking for you, you bothersome bird." As his undercurrent of nerves takes over, his voice takes a slightly higher pitch, "I was finished by seven. I waited... but no one has seen you in _hours_."

For a moment, Wormwood cannot reply. He makes himself stare him in the face. It should be the eyes, but he cannot quite bear how red they are, and the burning chestnut of Cedric's offended stare. He fixes his gaze on the frown marring his pale forehead.

"The greenhouse just took longer than expected," he evades. "I was fine."

"Of course you were," Cedric snarks, glancing to the cliff and back to him. Seems that somehow, the King has managed to put both of them in an ugly mood. He draws in a sigh. "Anyway, let's have something to eat before someone else can come and drop some other task on us, shall we?"

The raven doesn't question why Cedric wants to eat out there. If he doesn't wish to go back to the castle yet, there must be a reason. Maybe he's avoiding Roland, Wormwood speculates. Cedric has been hidden away all these hours, who knows where, after reliving those bad memories...

When the raven thinks of what might have happened, he can feel something spear him through the stomach, a breed of jealousy entirely different from the one he felt towards Sofia. Something uglier and darker, that a creature much braver than him would be afraid to look in the face. So he doesn't. Maybe they've simply talked instead, he tells himself, and Roland has made Cedric upset some other way. There are many ways, after all.

Back against the tree trunk, he stretches out his legs, and watches in silence as Cedric conjures a tray ready from the kitchens, with a plain tea set and egg sandwiches―"I have kept myself busy, see?"―and he lets the worries float away from his mind for a moment, just for a moment. He still has the loquats with him, so he produces them from his sleeve, like offerings. Cedric lets out a high-pitched hum, snatching one immediately. Wormwood grins, and he wants to joke again, but the itch in his eye just won't go away. He rubs it with the heel of his hand.

"Something wrong?" Cedric asks after a while, swallowing the last bite of fruit and looking up, spoonful of tea leaves halfway to the steaming teapot.

"I don't know," the raven grumbles, cross with himself.

"Let me have a look," Cedric says, setting the spoon down, and scooting closer to him, kneeling on the brittle grass by his side. He cleans his fingertips on a dampened napkin. "Stop rubbing like that―if it's a splinter, you'll only make it worse."

"Wasn't the one to slam myself into a tree." Wormwood presses in with his knuckles, frustrated, and the shock of pain tears a yelp from him. Cedric has come to find him, even after the King made him upset, to share a meal with him and talk―and he'll ruin it, that precious fragile normality, with this stupid itch that is driving him mad...

Cedric lets out a noise of annoyance, a sort of disgruntled huff. "Well, you were the one to leap off a cliff―Wormy, what did I _just_ say?" he chides, slapping his hand away. "Stop trying to claw your eyes out, will you?"

His hands cup Wormwood's face, and he's so close, kneeling right in front of him. Wormwood sees him through a wet blur now, gone still as though hit by a petrifying charm, his eye twitching. The fingers of Cedric's left hand shape to his face, carefully thumbing his lower eyelid down. It's instinctive to pull his head back, because Cedric's thumb is preventing him from blinking again, and the itch is intolerable.

"Oh, I see it." Sounding relieved, Cedric explains, "You still have your third eyelid, and you've got a lash trapped behind it."

Wormwood, who hasn't looked at himself too closely in a mirror since he assumed his new form, is suddenly overcome by a hideous mental image of what he must really look like. Through the pain and burning in his eye, he hears himself emit a low keen, and he feels a drop of something spill down his cheek.

"No, no, none of that," the sorcerer hushes him, and he wipes his cheek with a flick of his thumb that is almost impossibly, unbearably gentle. "You just have to hold still and trust me, alright? Steady."

"I'm _trying_ ," the raven grits out, straining not to balk.

He has learnt to apologize, and other things that would have seemed plain unnatural just a few days before. He has flown up a mountain on borrowed wings. He has learnt how to use an entirely new body in the span of a few days. And yet, the effort it takes him to put trust back in Cedric's hands, when he would have all reason to exact revenge on him in his moment of helplessness, proves to be almost superior to his strengths. He holds his breath, shaky hands clenching emptily.

Just like nail trimming, what feels like a daunting menace is over in an instant. It only takes a little nudge of Cedric's knuckle under his lower lid to let his haw swipe across by itself, and flick the lash onto the waterline of his eye, where the raven can still feel it tickle. Then, a brush with the side of Cedric's forefinger, as delicate as the kiss of a moth, and it's out. The itching eases, and the raven breathes again, shaking his head like a dog out of water.

"There, the wonders of a nictitating membrane! Here it is, the little rascal," Cedric says in satisfaction, lifting the eyelash to his eyes, as the raven rubs with the side of his hand, and blinks all his inhuman eyelids with purpose. They still feel wet. And hideous. "Well, not so little, I'd say, no wonder it was bothering you... Wormy?"

"It's... not stopping," the raven hears himself say, eyes trained on his open hands, watching the drops fall on them from both his eyes.

"Does it hurt still?" Starting to sound a bit worried, Cedric grabs the second damp napkin to put to his face, and let him wash up.

"You needn't mother me like this," Wormwood evades. He snatches the napkin, trying to wipe away the traces before Cedric can see, close as he is. Cedric pulls away at his harsh movement, and the raven bites down on his useless soft mouth until he hurts it. He wants to apologize, but his throat went so tight the words won't come out.

"Well, _forgive me_ if I still worry about you, after I've cleaned bits of eggshell from your featherless snout," Cedric retorts petulantly, cleaning his hands again and crossing his arms. "You know, if you were feeling so independent, I wouldn't have stopped you."

Wormwood looks away. "I just... thought I could fly, for a moment," he sighs. Defensively, he adds, "Those ravens, they were taunting me."

Cedric blinks at him. "I didn't mean stopped from leaping off a cliff, Wormwood," he says, a bit tiredly. "I meant... well, from going your way and migrating, I suppose?"

"Ravens don't migrate," he says, also tiredly. Then it comes, he doesn't know why, "But I'd like to find it again, sometimes. The smell of the forest I was born in, up North." _Where we met_ , he doesn't say.

He doesn't register the shadow passing over Cedric's eyes. "It's only natural, isn't it?"

A bit anxiously, Wormwood asks, "But if I were to go, how would you know that I'd be back?"

"I'd just have to wait here, I suppose," Cedric tells him, with a small shrug. Vaguely, he gestures to his middle, as if something were tying him up, keeping him chained to the earth. "It's not like I can go anywhere."

It pains him, to think Cedric would feel like a prisoner in the place that became their home. To think Wormwood is only making things even harder for him, when they were already so difficult. He thought he was helping, before he made all this mess. He thought of himself as one of the few good things keeping Cedric's days afloat.

He doesn't feel brave enough to ask directly, _do you want me to go?_ And maybe he has misunderstood, and that carriage ride was fruitful, instead of upsetting. At the thought, as if they'd been waiting with bared fangs and outstretched claws, every emotion he has pushed down during the past days lunges forward, and runs him through.

"This flight reflex you had," Cedric asks, inadvertently slicing through his thoughts. "Has it happened other times?"

Wormwood takes a deep breath, and takes over the tea preparation, to distract himself.

"Only when..." he tries, struggling to speak through the roil in his heart and mind. The empty spoon slips from his hand, clinking sharply on the tray. " _Drat_ ―only if I cannot think clearly."

"So, you didn't have complete control over your form when you changed, but had to grow used to it instead...?" Cedric asks with interest. And something else, something insinuating and hidden Wormwood doesn't want to think about. As if talking to himself, he mutters "And no mark can be seen..."

The raven clears his throat. "Yes, as you might have noticed... the hands, especially, were a challenge."

A bit steadier, his control refined through the night of potion-making, Wormwood carefully pours the tea, holding the pot's lid in place with the tip of his claw. His fingers are still a bit shaky after the fall, but if he concentrates he can still put in enough precision to not be ashamed of himself. He spies Cedric watching his hands with intrigue, and it gives him a bit of strength. Three sugar cubes, plucked delicately from the jar, a generous slug of milk. He stirs, spoon stem pinched between his thumb and the side of his forefinger.

"But I'm used to them now," he says, and presents the finished cup with a little flourish, and somehow manages a smile.

"Well, you do make a fine butler," Cedric comments, with a bit of snide. But he takes the cup, stirs some more, and takes a small sip from it. "Oh, it's _perf_ ―hm, I mean, it's not bad."

The sky above them stays overcast, but in the raven's heart the clouds part a bit to let in a bit of sunlight. He watches Cedric drink more of the tea he made for him, and eats a few sandwiches in greedy bites. Eggs taste a lot different now, he notes vaguely, but in a good way.

As soon as he's finished, Cedric sets his cup down, and reaches for Wormwood's right hand with both of his, the spark of interest bright in his eye.

"May I?" he asks, well after having taken it.

Wormwood is still nodding, and Cedric is already testing the flex of his fingers, leaning his own against them, extending the raven's arm to see how his grip differs from the automatic grasp of a bird's talons.

"Interesting," Cedric hums, one of his eyebrows arching. Wormwood watches his thin fingers probe every nook and cranny of his muscles and ligaments, grazing firm and clinical over the sensitive underside of his wrist, making him shudder a little. "Say, would you say your perceptions have changed, compared to when you were a raven?"

"Quite," Wormwood admits. If he tries, it's easy to imagine Cedric is just holding his hand. "Some things are very new. Some are familiar, but feel... way more intense. Other things instead, have become easier to handle."

Cedric tilts his head at him, birdlike. "What kind of things?"

"Being outside the tower isn't so stressful... I can be alone for longer without..." he never tried to describe the sense of looming silence to anyone. "Without... getting agitated. And I can tolerate things that would have―compelled me to fight before," he says, thinking of all the times he didn't attack Roland, though the man went looking for it with the persistence of a truffle dog. "And new ideas... aren't so difficult to wrap my mind around anymore."

Cedric's fingers curl on his wrist, and he lets out a thoughtful hum. "So, when you scratched me... it was more of a reflex too, because your hands were still hard to control?"

Wormwood's breath catches. "That would be... an awfully convenient excuse," he murmurs, looking away. "But no more than an excuse, nevertheless."

"Oh well, nothing wrong with the truth being convenient, once in a while, right?" Cedric eases, leaning back on his haunches. "If you didn't mean to―"

"But I did mean it. I _was_ using more force than I thought, but my intentions... I really wanted to..." The raven shakes his head, his eyes low. "To overcome you. It was easy... and all the new power I found in my hand, I've done nothing but abuse it."

The same hand, he lays softly on the sorcerer's sleeve. Cedric lets him, sitting still in front of him, letting him touch where his hands have struck, where the marks will sit forever, as reminders imprinted in his skin.

"Alright, it went to your head. But you've seen I have done the same." Cedric's tone is so casual, as if they were discussing the weather. "Was I thinking straight when I changed into a Sea Monster? Do you think I'd be using much restraint, if I finally acquired the Supreme Strength I've always wanted? You said yourself, we are just the same, cold and mean and deceitful. You just took a little revenge, for all the times I've mistreated―"

"No," the raven stops him, fighting down a wave of anxiety. "No―it doesn't matter if the wounds I've given you have healed, or if you would have done the same... it still happened, I've treated you like... an enemy."

"But now that you have control, you won't do it again, just like I promised not to experiment on you anymore. Right?" Cedric insists, as if that made them even.

"Of course I won't!" the raven gasps. With his free hand, he reaches and covers both of Cedric's. "But―"

" _But_ it still bothers you, I know," Cedric interjects, with a strange, forced ease. "I, too, have wished _so_ many times for it to be all a bad dream. Things would be much easier for us if it never happened, right? We could get right back on track, couldn't we?"

"I―yes, I suppose you're right," Wormwood says thickly, hunching over like he'd just been kicked in the gut. "But I know it cannot―"

"Listen, then," Cedric cuts him off, freeing his hands to steeple them, and inhaling like he were about to deliver a great proclamation. "Earlier today, as I bravely did my duty though I was perilously dangling out of the royal coach, held up only by rope and the King's grasp, I happened to have a _most_ brilliant idea!"

 _Oh no,_ Wormwood thinks. An idea that could make it like it all never happened... that promises nothing good. Then, a distant part of him only registers, _the King's grasp._

With a broad, self-satisfied grin, Cedric splays his arms and declares, "I have elected to look into _Memory Charms_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Hella's fic _Poison_ for that eyelash scene in Chapter 8 that has been in my heart since 2011, here referenced. That fic is majestic.


	15. Old Friend - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _F I N A L L Y_

The raven stares, blinking, his mind whirring to a halt. “Memory charms...?”

“Indeed, Wormy!” Cedric exclaims, and starts rattling off the same way he does about his Amulet plans. “Sure, I will have to dig up my notes―oh, the irony! I've forgotten all about it, hah―but once I do, I'll be able to perform a masterful one on myself, and _kablui_! We can _literally_ forget all about it for good.”

At his words, everything seems to fall silent. The seagulls' cry over the sea, the rustle of wind-swept waves, the calls of castle staff in the courtyard. For a moment, in the raven’s mind, all falls to stillness.

“You―” Wormwood finally whispers, his mouth gone so dry the words scratch him on their way out, “you want to... erase your memories...?”

“Well, _erase_ is a rather crude term, but... yes, you get the gist,” Cedric answers, with a small hand-wave. “I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, really! I was never into the whole mind magic business, I guess.”

Oblivious to the raven’s stunned silence, Cedric quickly rolls up his sleeve, exposing the four white lines marring his thin forearm. “Of course, like you said, I'll still have the scars,” he says indifferently. “But I'll find a way to explain them to myself, I'm sure. I wouldn't worry about it.”

But his words barely reach Wormwood; the raven cannot take his eyes off the scars. Almost breathless, he murmurs, “You'd do something like that… to forget I ever put my claws on you.”

“Exactly. This way, there will be no reason for it to bother us anymore. Problem solved at the root. Perfect, right?” the sorcerer is still saying. There's something in his voice, some undefined edge of panic. _Please, stop me_ , Wormwood hears that something beseech. “Don't I have the _best_ ideas?”

He finally looks up at Cedric's satisfied face―arms crossed, his nose in the air, a smug smirk stiffening his laugh lines―Wormwood can feel nothing but the slow beat of his own heart, and the screamed prayers in his mind. He hadn't considered, not even for a moment, the things Cedric's particular brand of ruthlessness can drive him to.

“Wormy?” the sorcerer's voice calls after a while, sounding as distant as if he were all the way across a field.

The raven realises he has been staring off into space for a full minute at least. Everything has become a blur, and he tries to answer, but no words can make it past his clenched teeth, and his breathing is speeding up. A great wave of dread hangs above him, the air pressing down and muffling all around him. Something is stuck in his throat, aching like a bite too large to swallow. His eyes sting again, both of them.

“Wormy, is something the matter?” Cedric calls him again. This time, the blurriness doesn't go away when he blinks, and as the fear grows he feels control slip from him. “Have you got something in your eye again?”

“Is this what I've done...?” he murmurs, and his voice comes out different, clipped and shaky, his throat spasming painfully. “You were right―all along, you were _right_ ―how could it be the same when I―what was I thinking when I did this to you?”

“I... am afraid I don't follow,” Cedric says, puzzled. Instead of fleeing from him, he inches closer. “What are you saying, all of a sudden?”

“Why have I been so _stupid_ ―how could I be so cruel, as to make you want to―want to...” He brings a hand to his throat, trying to feel the thing obstructing it, but there's nothing but omitted words. When an unknown force pulls it out of him, the word chokes him, “ _Mutilate_ yourself, dabbling in _mind magic_ of all things, all because of―”

Sounding mildly alarmed, Cedric raises his palms at him. “Now, now, with those crude terms! Granted, mind magic _is_ tricky, and some do say fickle and dangerous, but―” he halts when a strangled noise escapes Wormwood. “It… was just an idea, it just seemed practical, to get rid of them and... get things back to normal, you know? Wormy, what― _oh my_.”

Just like the night he lost his way in the forest, the raven feels his cheeks grow wet as though raindrops were running down his face. With unsteady hands, he covers his mouth and throat, trying to contain the overwhelming unknown. Cedric reaches up, and tugs his hands until they unclench, and the nails stop digging in his own skin.

“Please, don't do it,” Wormwood keens, in a broken, wet murmur. “It's your memories, anything could happen, don't―”

It feels so strange, the iron clench in his chest, like a cage too small; the sting that travels up his nose, the throbbing ache in his throat, his eyes leaking without injury or infection, without him being able to do anything about it. He feels Cedric's hands cup his temples, his body shift closer, as if he didn't know where to touch him to contain his distress, and he cannot help but reach up and close a tense hold of his arms. His body moves, shuddering convulsively with a new surge of tears every time he breathes out, and he cannot help it, he cannot control any of it. He weeps, full of astonishment.

“I beg you,” he chokes out. “I beg you, don't do this.”

“Alright―I won’t!” Cedric's voice reaches him, right next to his ear, alarm grown to distress. He's so close now, almost under his hunched, crumpled form. “I won't even look into it, no memory charms, not even a little one. I won't do it, I'll keep my memories. I promise. No need to get upset.”

The relief at his words, though intense, doesn't do anything to stop what's happening. If anything, it worsens it. The shuddering grows, until it's too strong to withstand, and Wormwood finds himself clinging for support, dropping his forehead onto Cedric's bony shoulder. The sorcerer, arms trapped at his sides, reaches up to pat him hesitantly over the ribs.

“Please, I don't know how to do this,” he whines, grabbing on his clothes and shaking him a little bit. He shuffles against Wormwood, clicking his tongue in dissatisfaction. “I've never seen you like this―what is happening to you?”

The raven lets out a muffled wail. “Old friend,” he sobs out, and Cedric's breath hitches. “I've made... a terrible mistake…”

“It's alright, I said I won't do it,” Cedric says awkwardly. With some difficulty, he snakes his arms between them, and up around the raven's bowed head. “Wormy, it's alright.”

“It is not!” he almost shouts, tearing himself away from his chest, undeserving of such comfort and closeness. “This is all _my_ fault, I'm the reason these days have been a nightmare―I wish I had never messed with that _blasted Well._ ”

Now that he has confessed, the rush of apologies flows from his mouth, like a stream wrecking the dam of his pride and flooding the land. Cedric's eyes that have seen all, known all of his days and so little of his thoughts, the raven shies away from their wide, over-bright stare, clumsily grabbing what he can reach of him in his hands, handfuls of robe in his empty hands, handfuls of _sorry_ in his blubbering mouth.

“Oh, Wormy,” Cedric murmurs, in his teacher's voice that is lower and softer, almost a croon, putting a hand to his lips to stop the flood, hush him so he may say no more. “I already know.”

Somewhere, something in the raven's chest cracks open. “Of course,” he murmurs, words into thin gloved fingers. Deliriously, he places a kiss on the hand, as though a ring of royalty were on it. “Of course you would figure it out―but I've dragged you into something I cannot control―something terrible, I―”

“It doesn't matter now. First, you need to calm down,” Cedric tells him, pulling him in. No written or spoken word, no matter how wise, could ever convey how overwhelming the relief that washes over him feels.  “If you were still crow-sized, at least I could―now I have no idea how...”

Wormwood lets himself be pulled effortlessly, folding down until the sorcerer has his head cradled in his arms, his face pressed down into his lap.

“You can still fit like this, sort of, right?” Cedric says, a touch of apprehension in his voice. His hands run into his hair as they used to run through his feathers, so precise and gentle, like the evening before, when all they thought lost found them again. Despite the fear, Cedric's hands are less hesitant, surer of what their touch can accomplish.

The raven finds the strength to nod, face buried in his stomach, tied belt against his forehead. And this time, Wormwood does pull him close, arms all around his lower back. He clutches blindly to him, as though he were a lifeline, a strong branch to cling to, and wait for the storm to pass.

Wormwood doesn't feel the hard tree roots under his legs anymore, nor the cold air around him. At times, Cedric reaches to tuck his wisps of hair back behind his ear, scratching gently, like the autumn of his first moult; before leaning it back around him, he runs his hand like a small lick of fire, smoothing down his spine. The raven can do nothing but tremble helplessly in his hands, every touch drawing together to his undoing.

As they stay like that for a while, his ragged breathing slowly winds down, the sobs ebbing away. Then, Wormwood angles his head to the side, and murmurs, “Tell me what the King did this time.”

“Hm? Why would you want to know about that, now?” Cedric asks him, eyebrows shooting up. “Aren’t you upset enough?”

The raven sighs. “At least I’ll think of something else, and you’ll get it out.”

“Oh, alright.” The thought of the coach ride makes Cedric inhale, his middle swelling up with air and pressing back into the raven's browbone, and let out a huge, exasperated sigh.

As back in the old days, Cedric narrates, and Wormwood lets himself be carried by his voice, like an air current letting him soar above the clouds. Somehow exhausted, he watches the tear-stain on Cedric's robe dry, his hands relaxing on the soft grass-covered ground behind the sorcerer's back, his arms in a loose circle around his knelt form. He huffs a laugh when the mood requires, or lets out a hum of agreement, or a click of his tongue in disbelief, just the way he used to.

When Cedric gets to the _worst memories_ and how the King behaved, however, something shifts. Wormwood feels his knees start to vibrate with anger under his head, his voice waver and crack. The raven pulls himself up, and Cedric, talking faster and faster, starts to feverishly swat away the green grass strands from his shoulder.

Without a word, they switch; Wormwood stops the sorcerer’s fretting hands, and loops his arms in turn around his lithe frame. His heart gives a flutter, barely withstanding the way he is now the one that can keep Cedric hidden in the folds of his sleeves, like a shining, frail secret between them.

In a rather hasty gesture, Cedric clings to his neck, still muttering into his shoulder. The air from Wormwood's exhales rustles the fine hair that sweep up slightly at the sorcerer's nape. With his arms raised around his neck, Cedric's shoulder makes a small crook that feels moulded to fit Wormwood's nose and forehead. When he breathes in, his quickened heartbeat seems to fill the remaining space in Wormwood's arms, like a last missing piece.

The raven listens to him vent, and breathes in lungfuls of his scent, sweat and dust and the briny trace of that forest, up North, where they were born. The scent has always clung to him, like the magnetic field clings to earth, impossibly, devastatingly warm.

“And I've gotten so upset, I told him you don't actually have a licence,” Cedric is saying, and glances up at him. Something hangs in the air, unsaid. “That was probably unwise of me. But he didn't seem to have any qualms about it! ... he really likes you, that fool.”

“Unbelievable,” Wormwood says, accidentally echoing Sofia. Goodwyn had brought Cedric to lose sleep, obsessing over his results and grades, insisting that Enchancia and its King would accept nothing short of the very best. _Wouldn't be such a bad idea, to get a licence,_ he thinks distantly. “And he let the matter drop, just like that?”

Cedric nods, frowning. Unable to keep his hands still, he lets go of Wormwood's neck and reaches again for his teacup. The raven lets him go, his arms falling away, lingering in the trace of a protective hold.

“He has pretty much told you he doesn't have any good reason to think of you as he does, beside his own issues,” he says, incredulous.

“That's what he said,” Cedric mutters sullenly into his tea.

“I cannot believe I've called _you_ a coward,” Wormwood hisses, disgusted. “And he wants _me_ to stay just because you're having a rough week? No wonder you want to take a day off from these people sometimes.”

“Didn't even thank me for the job done,” the sorcerer grumbles, draining the cup in one gulp, as though it were something much stronger than tea. “Just said he was _relieved I managed_.”

“But you've worked so hard.”

“I did, didn't I?” Cedric agrees, suddenly brightened. “It is _such_ a thankless job.”

“These _ingrates._ ” Wormwood's voice doesn't sound much different from his aggressive caws, roughed up from crying. He nudges the last loquat towards his companion, shaking his head once again. “You used to tell me how hard it was, but seeing it with my own eyes... it really seems that every day is a fight, where all you do is taken for granted, and worthy of notice only when you slip.”

“You too, old friend, were right all along.” Cedric sighs, munching on the fruit. Between bitterness and resignation, like in all his moments of bleak realism, he says, “No one actually needs me here, or wants anything to do with me. Unless Sofia is there to twist everyone's ear, of course.”

“Or me, rest assured,” the raven promises, clenching his hand into a fist. Cedric half-smiles at him, and feeling his cheeks heat up, Wormwood ends up blurting out, “Even if that's what they think, we'd all―they would all be lost without you here.”

“Then, you and the Princess are the only ones on my side,” the sorcerer says, with a strange, soft light in his eyes. He sends some faraway gaze up in the tree's bare branches, and adds, “Though, she just wants everyone to get along. She doesn't know yet... for some the time for that is over.”

Wormwood attempts, “It depends how disposed to forgiveness one is.”

“It depends how heartfelt the apology is,” Cedric rebuts dryly, his voice lilting a little bit at the end, curling into a hidden question mark.

Slowly, Wormwood takes the hand that hushed him, and brings it to his lips again.

“Most heartfelt.” This time, he angles it higher, so that his kiss touches it on the glove, just above the higher knuckles. In a shaky breath, he lets out, “I... if it were anybody else, I wouldn't care, but you... I couldn’t bear to cause you harm, ever again.”

Cedric looks at him, and Wormwood can tell the sudden fear in his eyes has nothing to do with his claws being near. He looks like there's something he needs to say, pressing down on him like an unbearable weight. _Tell me_ , the raven writes in the tender brush of his thumb on his knuckles.

“Y-you mean...? But I thought―” Cedric blurts out, a jumble of words, reddened ears, eyes that shy from his. “I was under the impression―the King's favour...”

Wormwood feels like he could cry again. When he nears his fingers to the sorcerer's cheek, carefully bent so he won't scratch him, he can see his own hand shaking. He asks, “Do you really think I care about that?”

Cedric's brow knits. “Why would you do all this, otherwise?” he asks, full of incomprehension. And there, bare in his eyes, a touch of hope. “You must have a reason.”

“I do, old friend,” the raven answers, and watches the hope bloom to a beautiful, incredulous sheen. “It's you. There is nothing that matters less to me than that man's favour, and nothing that matters more than you do.”

“ _Me_?” Cedric breathes, and the cheek grows a little warmer under his touch. “But I―”

“I've been told it's wrong for a human to be the world to another, but I am no human, and―I've missed sharing your days more than I miss my wings,” Wormwood hears himself say, in the beautiful words that were always somewhere in him, in some bubble that never before had had reason to burst. “And I swear to you, I will _never_ treat you like an enemy again.”

A long moment passes. The wind grows colder, as the afternoon darkens over them. Wormwood would expect him to retreat and hide, so Cedric inching closer instead, and the hand that poses coyly on his cheek, come as a surprise.

“Then, I should do my best to accept it.” Cedric looks away, as if overwhelmed by his own boldness, and adds, “My oldest friend, if anyone has a chance of being forgiven, it is you.”

Doubt crossing Wormwood's mind, he says delicately, “Not many have ever apologised for wronging you… have they?”

And he sees the sorcerer hesitate, forest creature caught in a trap. “No one, in fact,” Cedric admits, his touch growing nervous, almost a tug on his cheek. “You are first, congratulations. That’s beside the point, anyway.”

The raven inches closer, pulled in, leaning into his companion's space until the tip of his nose brushes his pinked round cheek. Cedric has a child's face, hardened just a bit by the sharpness of his chin and the lines around his mouth; but his eyes can look very round and guileless when they widen, in their delicate shade of golden brown, in all the unsaid things they hide.

“I'll keep it in mind, then.” Wormwood gives the cheek a small nudge, like a peck, and having a mouth instead of a beak lets him feel how soft it is, sort of fuzzy, like a summer peach, growing warmer and redder under his breath. He hears Cedric gulp down a lump of nothing, take in a shaky inhale.

“There were many things I've missed, too. Things very dear to me,” Cedric whispers. The quick, impatient touch of his lips on Wormwood's cheek also comes as a surprise, so much that his breath catches. “You taste of tears.”

The raven huffs a laugh from his nose. Still unsure how welcome his touch is, he just moves away a strand of Cedric's fringe that falls forward, combing it back with the tips of his claws. Cedric's eyes, too, are still a bit red, full of questions and hesitation, and so, so bright. The little filaments that compose his irises, burnt umber as the autumn cooling crisp around them, remind Wormwood of the woods, the dark forest up North where they were born. A miniature red world, dearest to him than any kingdom.

Mirroring the gesture, he places a clumsy kiss on Cedric's cheekbone, more of a bump, that makes the sorcerer wince a bit. Wormwood tries again, carefully, finally kissing those fine lines that grace Cedric's eyelids, his temple, his forehead; his huff of airy, nervous chuckle shivers on the raven’s chin.

“Do I?” The raven can't help but slide his gaze down to Cedric's mouth, the pale curve of his parted lips, the touches of colour bitten into them, as he breathes in answer a toneless, _yes_.

Their touch is already a ghost of a sensation, too quick to savour. Yet, from the way his mind has hazed, he already knows he needs more of it. A lot more. He runs his black thumbnail on them, so gently it leaves no mark, not even a white line. Cedric's exhale has a slight tremble in it, hot as dragon-breath on the raven's sensitive thumb.

It is gravity that pushes him forward, the planet's axis tilting for him to fall in and touch Cedric's lips with his, in a first dry nudge that leaves him wondering why his whole body was calling him to it. Then, it's Cedric's hand, the slightest of impatient tugs, and something melts away between them, and the thin slit of Cedric's mouth is like a searing wound under his, sending shivers down to his fingertips. _Oh_ , he thinks, and his world empties of thought and worries, just for a moment.

He must taste a bit odd, tears and that hint of blood from his bitten cheek. If Cedric minds, he doesn't say. Wormwood could never understand the appeal of a human mouth, but now―from the moment Cedric pulls him flush against his chest, his scalding breath filling all the empty spaces between them, and Wormwood's hands move on their own, cupping his companion's skull and shoulders, and Cedric lets out that small, sob-like hum in response―now each and every one of his senses tell him he could never stop doing it, never let go of the adored creature in his arms.

“You taste so sweet, instead,” he murmurs, without even thinking about it. And it seems, in the end, the rabbit was right. Equally absently, the sorcerer sighs.

“Someone put three sugars in my tea,” he breathes, his voice high and chime-like, pinked cheeks and wide pupils taking in the low light like hungry, burnished suns. He looks dazed, the way Wormwood has seen him only under the trickster fairy's enchantment. For a moment, the green grass around them seems to shine in the waning grey light.

He screws his eyes shut. Like lightning shedding a harsh light on the warm dark cotton of his mind, Wormwood remembers what he has been keeping to himself for so long. If he had ignored it, Cedric would have lead him back to the castle, and they would be taking that nap they so could use.

 _No_ , he tells himself, his hold tightening. _He already knew. He was the one to take it all on himself, the whole of today, until I could gather my courage and come clean._ Forcing his eyes open, he finally lets himself see what has been there all along. Or at least, ever since Cedric knelt there. At first glance, it seemed like a trick of the light, but―

“Oh no,” he gasps, taking a better look. It's definitely _not_ a trick of the light.

“Huh?” Cedric murmurs, as if he'd just woken up. He blinks, and immediately peels his hands off him to slap on his mouth, blanching. “Oh no, you weren't―?”

“No, no, it's not that―uhm, I very much was. But look,” Wormwood hurries, making to scoop him up so he won't be in contact with the soil. “The grass. Look at the grass under you. It's _green_.”

“Wormwood, what―” the sorcerer starts to protest, putting a hand down on the ground. Where they can reach his bare fingertips, the shortish blades of grass curl around them, as though they wanted to trap him there. “ _Oh_.”

He scampers up in the raven's lap, and though his bony shins dig painfully into his thighs, Wormwood is all too glad to allow him the space to climb.

They give a glance around. The circle of revitalised grass spans a few feet from where Cedric was sitting, changing so gradually they haven’t noticed.

“I've waited too long to tell you,” the raven groans, shaking his head. “I wanted to find a solution first... but I couldn't, and this mess has grown bigger than my strength.”

“I'd love to hear an explanation, actually, yes,” Cedric says, still staring down wide-eyed. “The island is desperate, and if you messed with that Well... you must be involved.”

Echoing one of Cedric's own favourite retorts, Wormwood asks, “What makes you say that?”

“Too many circumstances were overlapping to be mere coincidences,” the sorcerer explains, shrugging minutely. “From what you told me about your transformation and the absence of a mark on your body... what you've achieved isn't a simple disguise or change of appearance. Your entire _structure_ was muted to this one.” And he gestures to the whole of him. “It must be one of the most powerful charms I've ever seen in action, and I know that my Family Wand is involved somehow. But how? And why?”

The raven draws in a sigh. “It all started with our plans for the kingdom,” he starts, and gives Cedric a moment to stare at him in disbelief. “You see, we've been working on them for so long... that you'll be King, and I'll be your Royal Advisor... but this whole year, you've done nothing but backtrack. It made me doubt your determination, and in turn, my own.” A pause. Two sighs. “Although... I do wonder if you really want it?”

“Of course I want it!” Cedric says, but he has never sounded less convinced. Or convincing. “This year has been busy, with all these Enchanted Feasts, and birthday favours, and Kings-for-a-Day―but that Power-Plucking potion idea you had could actually work, you know? That way Sofia wouldn't even know I took her Amulet, and I could get the powers without abiding by the rules and, well... I could give it back. And she wouldn’t know that I... that I’m not…” he trails off. “But I digress, I'll figure something out. Go on.”

Wormwood shakes his head. He takes a deep breath, and finally narrates of the fruitful morning he re-encountered the Well, just a couple of days prior.

“So you used one of your remiges―a flight feather, a part of your _body―_ and made a wish. Into the most dangerous and powerful Wishing Well in the kingdom,” Cedric sums up, “and you wished for _breakfast_?”

“ _Eternal_ breakfast.” Wormwood heaves a sigh. “Seemed innocuous enough, at the time. But now, the land is... dying because of it, I gather.”

The sorcerer emits a thoughtful noise. “Then, not unlike Prince James who had me drown out a giant's snoring with fireworks... with the potion we've been asked to brew, we've only been covering up the problem,” Cedric notes critically. “And what did you pay for your human form?”

The raven clears his throat. “A vine with seven fruits, of the same climber.”

“The one you had just made? You went and started a _loop_?” Cedric exclaims, throwing his hands up. “ _Whose_ bidding have you been doing for three decades, Wormwood, the village baker's?!”

“Yes. I mean, yes, I've made the loop, I messed up,” Wormwood sighs. “But my first human form... the transformation was... quite unpleasant. I was an old man, no teeth, bones chattering... I was frightened―and the Wand was there, the Well told me it would work, and...”

“Hold on, hold on,” Cedric interjects, rubbing his temples. “You're telling me… you've paid my _Family Wand_ , handcrafted by Solomon the Sentient and passed down for six generations, that I was able to pry form Father's grasp only after saving an entire village―including my own mother―from _melting to death_ ,”―pause to breathe in―“for... _youth_?!”

Wormwood relaxes a fraction. He was almost expecting him to say, _for this repulsive hybrid form?!_ so it comes as a sort of relief. For the umpteenth time, he sighs.

“You don't understand,” he says, half-begging. “I was more than old, I was―it felt like I was about to _drop dead_ any moment. You've always taken care of my aches with magic, I never realised how old I was getting... that I was running out of time.”

“Oh, so now it's my own fault?!” Cedric asks aggressively. “And what do you mean, _out of time_? We're only six years apart!”

“I didn't say it's your fault,” Wormwood assures. “Ravens are lucky if they live far into their second decade, though, remember?” He waits for the light of recollection to hit Cedric. When it does, the sorcerer's jaw falls open. “It dawned on me that... I wouldn't live to see the dreams we shared come true. I'd miss all of it, and I couldn't even _tell_ you. I panicked.”

But he isn't quite sure Cedric has heard him. Still balancing on his thighs, he seems to be reeling into a panic of his own.

“How could I forget...?” he murmurs, almost to himself, a shaky hand covering his mouth. “And I've wasted all this time... you had to go and do all this mess, just for me to listen to you―and I never knew...” Suddenly, he halts. “Wait. The _Well_... told you to use the Wand as payment?”

“Kind of... nudged. Kept calling me _Your Majesty_ , and I wasn't thinking straight, and I took the Wand there just to hide it, you know, like I've done other times with your things... I wasn't planning to use it like this―”

“Because of that morning's experiment?” The raven nods. “And after, the Well gave you back the black wand that I cannot touch?”

“When it was all done, yes.”

Cedric takes a long pause. He asks him to recite the exact wording of his wishes, a couple of times. Then sits in silence for a bit longer, rubbing his chin.

“The Well has tricked you,” he declares in the end, with iron-clad certainty. “It brought you to use the Family Wand as payment, and this thing you brought back is certainly not the real thing. I don't know why a Wishing Well would do that, or _how_ , for the matter. But we're going to find out.”

He zaps the tea tray back to the kitchens, and flows off Wormwood's knees to get up. The blood chills in the raven's veins as soon as Cedric's weight lifts off him.

“What, right now? Wait,” he says, leaping up and nervously stretching his numbed legs, clutching at him. “You can't possibly go there alone.”

“You think I can't take on a Well on my own?” Cedric sneers. “It's a Well. I'm not Roland. I won't be tricked.”

“I just―I don't want you to be in danger,” he blurts out, his voice thick with worry. He forces himself to add, “When yesterday I brought you back, after you collapsed in the village... I realised it was me, _I_ was leeching your magic. I went to the Well for an explanation, and it told me that if I brought you there, it would give me… a source of energy of my own.” He pauses to swallow. “If you go there... I don't know what, but something bad will happen.”

For a moment, Cedric just stares at him, pale in the face, looking terribly frightened. Then, with evident and deliberate effort, his eyes harden with determination.

“I will _not_ leave the most precious heirloom entrusted to me to _rot_ at the bottom of a well,” he declares. “I have no choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal breakfast, Cedric.


	16. Nightingale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sofia knows too much, and the fairytale was prophecy.  
> (Violence TW)

 

"Dad sure wasn't joking when he said the day would be busy," Sofia puffs, sliding her bedroom door open to let herself and Clover in.

The bunny hops to his round pillow and promptly flops facedown on it. "Yeah, no kidding," he groans, words into the thick stuffing. "Man, I'm beat."

The day is a blur of checklists, servants' trotting legs, and the metallic clack of Baileywick's watch being snapped shut. While Sofia and the twins were helping with the decorations, their mom was busy taking care of the pile of last minute invitations. The King, Sofia has barely seen all day; as far as she knows, he set off to take care of the produce issue.

In between tasks, she lent an ear to the complaints: what a mess in the kitchens! they said, harvest and cooking all at once, it's a worse than the Morning Market down there! _Everything's against the feast, innit?_ Sofia heard Violet tell Suzette at one point, not really quietly as usual. _They should just decide for another day, really!_ But Suzette just shushed her.

Still, everyone still did their part, loyal to the orders given. The spirit of the Royal Castle of Enchancia has always been _don't let anything deter you from good things_. Dad and his staff rose up to the challenge, Sofia guesses.

The castle has been made beautiful, even more than usual: decorated with lovely garlands of wheat and acorns, poppies and grapevine. The staff has hung up the richly-coloured tapestries, and arranged thousands of orange-red candles that give off a sweet nutty smell. The rest of the decorations consists in a sizeable amount of stars, half-moons and apples carved from natural or bleached wood, that Sofia personally fished out of the attic. And best of all, the smells wafting their way from the kitchens are no less hearty and delicious than those for much carefully planned events.

Sofia lets herself fall on the bed with a huff, mirroring her bunny. Clover chuckles at her.

"How's your leg, kid?" he asks. "Still holding up with all the running from today?"

She waves a hand. "It's fine, just sore, you know?" She rolls off the bed to try out a couple of the soothing stretches Mr. Popov showed in class, to see if it helps with her pulled muscles. "It's always worse the next day. I'm more worried about limping all over the dance floor."

"Well," Clover glances around for something to distract her with, and hops on the bed to gesture at the lovely gown laid out for her. It's a heavier fabric than her usual attire, in the earthy colours she isn't much used to wearing, complementing the season. "Ohh, at least you're gonna limp with style, am I right?"

Sofia half-grins. "You're always right."

"Yeah! And if anyone gives you sh―I mean, a hard time about it, you can just say you're inventing a new dance!" And he pivots on the bed, falling down and giving her two thumbsup.

"Perfect!" Sofia claps her hands, chuckling. "But it's not that... I don't really care about that anymore."

And she falls into her thoughts again, sobering up. Clover has to prop his elbows on her undamaged thigh and prompt her gently a couple of times.

"I just... I don't want Dad to _worry_ , you know?" she finally manages, rushing her words. "It's like he thinks I'm going to have an accident or be in trouble every time I step out of the castle."

"Well, you _can_ be a wee bit reckless, kid," the bunny says evenly. Sofia sighs. "And he doesn't even know half of the adventures you've had."

Sofia's stomach twists in discomfort at his words. "But I… it's not like I _like_ all this trouble and keeping things hidden," she says defensively, wringing her short fingers. "But what if he wants me to quit the team? What if he doesn't trust me anymore? What if someone else gets the blame for my mistakes?"

"Yeah, the man's a tad over-apprehensive at times," Clover concedes, tilting his head in agreement and patting her leg to calm her down. "But he knows you love derby, he wouldn't take away something you like so much. And from the way he sought out your advice, I'd say he trusts you a lot, right? It wouldn't change just because you got a few little secrets."

Sofia inhales deeply and breathes out. "I really hope you're right again," she sighs, the whirl of worry in her stomach easing a bit nevertheless. "Speaking of little secrets... there is just _something_ on his mind these days, I can smell it. But of course he's not gonna tell me."

"Maybe crankbird gives him the creeps," Clover snorts. "Turns out he's right, though. Nobody knows exactly what, but word in the forest is that something _really_ weird is going on."

"Tonight?" Sofia asks, and the worry flares up again. The rabbit nods. "... there really _is_ something against this feast! Maybe I should go find Mr. Cedric, and ask him to look into it before the guests start to arrive..."

An odd expression crosses Clover's face, a sort of alarmed hesitation. "I'm... not so sure it's a good time―" he starts, but before he can continue, a golden glow to their left catches their attention.

"Oh," Sofia says, "Mr. Cedric's crystal ball is doing the thing again."

"Are you ever gonna give that back or...?" Clover asks, as he and the Princess reach the puppet cart to investigate. Sofia picks the ball up, and like last time, the intermittent glow becomes permanent at her touch. She leans in, almost touching it with the tip of her nose, squinting to see if she can espy something in it.

"Hello?" says a female voice from inside the sphere, and girl and rabbit both let out a high-pitched yelp. "Is it Princess Sofia? You are too close to the glass, step back a little bit so I can see you, dear."

"What the...?" Clover wheezes, peering from behind Sofia's wide skirt.

Sofia doesn't know how she hasn't dropped the ball from the startle. Maybe her dazzleball training. She breathes out and lays it down on the floor, and as soon as she sits at a step distance from it, she can also put its golden contents into focus. The narrow green eyes of the sorceress peer back at her.

"Ms. Winifred?!" Sofia says, dumbfounded. "How...?"

"I have a twin sphere here at the Meadows, dear," she explains. "So _this_ is why Cedric wasn't picking up..."

She rubs her chin pensively for a moment, while Sofia and Clover exchange a glance. When Ms. Winifred speaks again, they both jolt a little.

"Would you mind lending me a hand, dear Princess?" the sorceress asks sweetly. "I'd use the portrait, but it seems we have some sort of glitch."

"Oh, sure," Sofia says good-naturedly. If she were to be honest, she didn't grasp much of what the sorceress just told her. "What can I do for you, Ms. Winifred?"

"You see, these crystal balls are very good for finding things, but their reach is quite limited," Ms. Winifred explains. "If you check through the ball you have with you, I'll be able to see what you see. Please, ask it to show you your own location, as check if the calibration is good."

Sofia blinks, a bit lost again, but Clover shrugs noncommittally and gestures at her to go for it. "Crystal ball," she says, "please show me... uh, Princess Sofia?"

At her words, the sphere fills with dense custard-tinted smoke. It twirls and twirls, and then clears, revealing the shape of a little girl and a bunny, sitting on the floor of her room, in shades of yellow like a scenery painted with sunlight. She raises an arm and waves it, and the small figure in the sphere does the same at the same time.

"Is the... calibration thing right, Ms. Winifred?"

"It seems in good order, yes." The sorceress's voice still comes loud and clear although her image isn't visible. "Would you mind doing some more testing for me, dear?"

"That's some nosy lady," Clover mutters, scratching his ear.

Sofia splays her fingers a little. Ms. Winifred has surely taken care of the kingdom alongside Mr. Goodwyn back when he was in charge, she reasons. There's nothing wrong if she checks around the castle that was her home for so many years, right?

Sofia asks the sphere to show her family. Her mother is with Dad, patting his shoulder in that comforting way of hers, as he looks kind of cross about something. Amber, the completed checklists Dad entrusted to her still on her vanity, is choosing her gown for tonight; James, who volunteered as extra errand boy for the day and spent it darting all over the castle on his wheelie shoes, is napping on a couch with Rex on his chest.

"Thank you, dear," Ms. Winifred says after a while, with the same pensive hum Mr. Cedric does sometimes. "But may I ask why do _you_ have the ball?"

"Oh, Mr. Cedric just forgot it the other day," Sofia evades out of habit. "We are all busy this week."

"Of course, of course, the Equinox and all," Ms. Winifred muses, and Sofia can hear a vague edge of secrecy in her voice, carefully hidden.

Maybe it's just nostalgia, she thinks. Sofia wonders if she misses royal life sometimes, all the celebrations and the people's smiling faces, the light and magic of a decked ballroom. Maybe Sofia could ask Dad to invite her and Mr. Goodwyn sometimes, if they feel like traveling.

"But tell me," the sorceress continues, "has something out of the ordinary happened recently? Some odd accident, perchance?"

"Yeah, the accident's named _birdbrain_ ," Clover snorts, but of course Ms. Winifred can't hear him.

Sofia hesitates. She can tell the sorceress wants to know of her son, but being vague about it for reasons she cannot fathom; Sofia has therefore no idea how vague she must be in return. Mr. Cedric was so strongly against telling his father about Wormwood… and she has the feeling he wouldn't want either of his parents to butt in on the matter. But maybe Ms. Winifred could understand, she muses. Mothers are always the ones to understand better, after all.

"Well, you know, the usual bumps and scratches, Ms. Winifred," she settles. "Nothing to worry about."

"Well. Aren't you the reckless lot," the sorceress says, her voice low. For a moment, but it might be the light of the crystal ball, a strange cold glare clouds her kind face. Then, her eyebrows pull up in affected anguish. "Princess Sofia, as you certainly know, mothers are prone to worry. Would you mind asking the sphere to show me my dear boy?"

Under direct request, Sofia has to comply. It would come off as suspicious if she were to refuse at this point. She heaves a sigh, and asks the crystal ball to find Mr. Cedric for her.

It shows only a vague image, two figures walking through what looks like the gardens. The fog is very dense, blotting out most of the image... which is a relief, Sofia supposes. She doesn't know what they're doing so far out in the gardens, since she knows they were busy with some potion Dad asked for... but the place looks kind of familiar.

"Uh-oh," Clover mutters behind her.

The two figures arrive at a crooked gate, and the image wavers and dissolves. A chill runs down Sofia's back.

"I'm sorry, it just cut off... they―I mean _he_ must have gone out of reach," Sofia says, trying to hide the tremble in her voice.

"Doesn't matter," the woman says, sounding pleased and oddly excited. "I've seen what I needed. Thank you, dear. Now, I must leave you."

And, just like that, she ends the communication. Sofia and Clover are left blinking at the empty, clear glass.

"Now we know where the magic man gets them bad manners from," Clover comments. "Hey Sofia, call her back, let's see what this is all about."

Sofia bites her lips in hesitation. "But Clover, then _we_ would be the nosy ones."

"Hey, she was nosy first," the bunny says, and that settles it.

She takes a deep breath, and trying not to think about it too much, she asks the sphere to call Ms. Winifred's sphere. She and Clover lean in close, and the magic goes through. Yet, they can't see anything but an indistinct blur, and the only voices they hear are muffled.

"Look, look, it's that tacky ring," Clover whispers excitedly, pointing at a vaguely shaped line in the blur. "She's keeping a hand on the thing, that's why we can't see. This is _all_ very suspicious, lemme tell ya."

Sofia shushes him with her forefinger on her lips, and leans in to listen. She recognises the muffled voice as Mr. Goodwyn's. He sounds frantic, Sofia can imagine his fluffy eyebrows arched and his moustache all in a flutter, gesturing wildly.

"... you gave your _word_ , Winifred!" Mr. Goodwyn is saying. Sofia leans in closer, her ear all but glued to the cool smooth surface. "Was I a fool to trust it?"

"He isn't a child anymore," says a woman's voice. The tone is harsh, like the one Constable Miles puts on when he orders the guards around. Sofia can barely reconcile it with the kind face of Ms. Winifred. "It is time you stop fighting what is meant to be, Goodwyn."

"But―you know how he is, it could be a _disaster_ ," Mr. Goodwyn almost yells. "He could mess it up, anything could go wrong―he could very well _die_!"

That moment, the hand lifts, and the elderly sorcerer and sorceress are revealed to Sofia's wide eyes. Mr. Goodwyn is exactly in the state Sofia imagined him to be.

Ms. Winifred, instead, has on an expression Sofia would have never imagined her face could make. Cold and stern, more similar to the scowling portrait in Mr. Cedric's workshop than anything Sofia has seen. The sorceress looks her straight in the eye through the warmish glass, and the line cuts.

Sofia balks a little. "Has she seen me?" she squeaks, her heart beating fearful for some odd reason.

"You were practically _on_ the thing, so I think not," Clover says. "But what do I know? I'm a rabbit, and that sounds like stuff for people who like to look for trouble."

"I'm going to find Mr. Cedric," Sofia says. "He must be the one Mr. Goodwyn was talking about."

"There we go. Sof, Sof, hang on," Clover says, while she rushes to her feet and makes a beeline for the door. "I might be seeing things… but that looked like the gate to Amber's Wishing Well."

Sofia freezes. If Clover also got the same impression... it means she saw right the first time.

The nightmarish afternoon washes over her, all at once. The chase, the creepy soft voice of the Well, the panic on Amber's face when her last wish failed to fix the problem. If the Well has the power of transforming people into animals...

"A―ha!" she realises, tapping a fist on her palm. "So _that's_ how Wormwood did it!"

"That explains a lot." Clover sucks in air through his front teeth. "That Well is up to no good, and my radishes can testify."

"And Dad said that place is forbidden, but wouldn't tell me why."

She paces for a couple of steps, debating with herself. It doesn't take her much self-convincing to decide the circumstances are, once again, leading her to defiance.

"It means it must be dangerous, and what Mr. Goodwyn said only confirms it," she tells Clover. "Maybe Ms. Winifred _wanted_ me to hear, and send me over to help! Right?"

But, to her surprise, Clover isn't with her on this one.

"This isn't the time to play detectives," he says. "You don't have to solve _every_ problem people mention around you, kid. And this one may not be for you to solve, trust the prey critter here."

For a moment, it really makes her doubt her resolution. Clover is usually up for anything, even if it might get dangerous.

"But I can't just stay back, Clover," Sofia says, shaking her head, her hands tense into fists.

The two lonely figures in the dark gardens, and the fear in Mr. Goodwyn's voice echo in her mind―and she knows they won't leave her alone, unless she does something to fix it.

"If they are going to be in trouble, I _must_ go and help them!"

* * *

Cedric marches forward. His wand is balanced on the flat of his palm, using a Compass spell to keep track of where he and Wormwood are going.

The air of the gardens, cold and damp and almost too heavy to breathe, leaves beads of moisture in their hair and clothes, and has managed to chill him all over in the span of minutes. In his free hand, he keeps a pinch of Wormwood's sleeve, as not to lose him in the foggy whiteout.

The deeper they wander into the back gardens, the denser the mist, until the white air presses on them like cottonwool, and even the sound of their steps grows stifled.

"After you brought me back yesterday, Wormy," he starts, and the raven jolts at the sudden sound of his voice. "Was it the last time you saw the Well?"

The raven just nods, his tense jaw twitching. The little yellow fog-light on the tip of the black wand, that Wormwood keeps at waist level to shed some light on their steps, wavers slightly.

Cedric presses on, "Was it already this bad?"

"It wasn't... I was able to find my way," Wormwood says thickly, clearing his throat. "I could still see my feet on the ground, at least."

He seems genuinely scared of what they are about to encounter. _It's not like I'm keen to see that place again, either,_ Cedric tells himself. Especially not after the carriage ride with the King, all the buried ghosts that came back to haunt him. _But I must._

Now that the dots are connecting, he sees all the signs he should have been faster to notice. A sudden, dense fog can appear in unusual places if the soil gets a magical charge. The more he observes the dark-coloured copy of the Family Wand Wormwood is brandishing, the more certain he grows there is no way the Well was already powerful enough to corrupt an object like the original Family Wand. Or generous enough to arm Wormwood without drawbacks, for the matter.

It must have kept the true Wand, and put the seal on the shadowy copy so that Cedric wouldn't touch it and realise it is different. For all he rakes his brain for answers, though, Cedric still cannot fathom _why_.

_It's a well_ , he reasons. _A magical object built to fulfil a specific purpose. Maybe there is no why,_ he finds himself thinking, in uncharacteristic hopefulness _, and it's only malfunctioning._

The fog-light is trembling hard in Wormwood's hand now, rendering it all but useless. The raven keeps his lips pressed together, and says nothing each time Cedric glances up at him.

"Steady, will you?" Cedric tells him, tugging hard on the sleeve. Wormwood's frown tinges with an odd pitiful look, but he keeps silent.

By the time they reach the rusty gate, which appears in front of them as though it swam up into the fog, the raven looks greyish around the ears, and ready to throw up. The clearing's hedge is reduced to a dried out heap of twigs. Barely visible in the distance, the shock of green Cedric has seen from the flying coach sticks out like an eyesore.

"I don't think we can do this," Wormwood blurts out, stopping in his tracks as soon as Cedric has laid his hand on the gate. "There must be some other way."

"Wormwood, if you're scared of an old well and some dry weeds, you can go back," Cedric says. The raven looks at him like he just backhanded him in the face. He tries again, "I mean, you don't _have_ to stay: _I_ should deal with it, as Royal Sorcerer and as my father's son. Then they'll all see if my role is too much for me."

Wormwood hesitates a moment, just a moment.

"I am at your side." His voice is low and anxious, thick with words unsaid.

"Alright then." Cedric has to avoid his eyes as he pushes the gate open, shying from the awful warmth in his middle, mixing with the fear settled there, drying his damp bones like a campfire. Needlessly, he announces, "Here we are. The Queensgrave."

He takes in the clearing, the huge green climber sprawling on the skeletal hedge, the scraggly well, the old marble bench. Roland has sat right there, and made the wish that brought tragedy upon his family. The place is forbidden, and he feels his steps on the ground tremble and creak, as if the very grass knew he isn't supposed to be there. _I must_ , he repeats.

"I haven't been here in quite a while." He steps forward. Trying to keep his voice steady, he speaks up, "Hello again, Wishing Well. I hear my father's lock hasn't been very effective, lately."

"Greetings, little sorcerer," the Well answers. "I hear your resilience is being severely put to the test, lately."

After all those years, the strange sing-song voice is still just the same. Cedric's jaw tenses, the old itch back in his hands and neck. _The Well talks differently than I remember_ , he thinks distantly.

Then, with unmistakeable glee, Well speaks again, "You have _one_ wish remaining."

A beat passes. Behind him, Wormwood's tightly controlled breathing hitches. Keenly, Cedric becomes aware of the raven's eyes burning a hole in the back of his skull.

"Cedric," Wormwood gasps, "y-you have...?"

"Why yes, raven-child," the Well says, before Cedric can speak up. "We all have our little secrets, don't we? Must have been a whole decade, by now, hasn't it?"

"Indeed," Cedric grits out.

Shortly after the Queen's death, he had found himself in the Well's clearing.

To honour her wishes, an empty casket had been publicly lowered in the family sepulchral of House Winslow, on the cypress hill far across the lake.

_The new Queen and the old King, both gone in one night_ , the people were murmuring. _Has the Royal Family been cursed?_ The ceremony had an air of surprise to it, a sort of quiet, stunned disbelief. The silence was as heavy as a thousand stares, as tall ramparts of piled stones.

Cedric, obliged to attend, had somehow held it together. It was another oddly rainy day of summer, the black-draped carriages were following the sombre funeral coach, and Mother's long nails sank into his elbow, keeping him upright each time his knees threatened to give out.

He made it through the carriers remarking how light the Queen's casket was, and how heavy the King's. Through the slow, interminable ceremony, through the empty gaze of Roland's lightless eyes, and his voice that didn't crack as he delivered his speech.

The widower King stood tall next to his mother the Queen Regent, between the royal twins held tight by their wet nurses, draped in matching black shawls.

Then, bothered by having been jostled around for too long, Amber started to wail, and the word spread like a great wave, _the little Princess grieves for her mother! She grieves for her grandfather!_ and at once, the crowd's restraint was lost. Neighbouring royals and nobles in full regalia, emissaries from every known land, entire villages worth of peasants, all weeping on the hill in countless, wretched laments. It brought Cedric back to the chorus of caws, out on the seastacks, the air as heavy as water in his lungs.

Later, a second ceremony―quiet and private, almost secretive―was held, in the thicket just behind the Well's clearing. Just the King, the Steward, and a few trusted aides were permitted to attend the her actual burial.

The very evening, still according to the Queen's uncustomary wishes, there would be a ball for the birth of the Royal Twins.

The air in the castle was intolerable, unbearably empty and at once ripe with fuss and hustle. Cedric snuck out, restless, and tried to watch the burial from the shadow of dripping firs. He didn't last long.

Eyes in a blur, hem of his funeral robe grazing the dewy grass, he turned away and wandered off in the gardens. When he dried his eyes, in a cruel twist of fate, he found himself at the rusty gate of the Well's clearing.

_Give me your riches, and I'll grant you three wishes_ , the soft monotone voice had said, just as it did more than a decade prior, like a beacon of destiny shining in the night.

Behind him, in the castle alight with celebration and forced good spirits, he could picture the people toasting to the twins' long life and health, their wish-bound perfection. The hair on his nape stood on end, his body wracked with shivers. He braced on the stone edge, and watched the tears bounce off the cold golden slab, falling ten feet into the water below.

_You've killed her_ , he told the Well, in a high croak. _And they think it's all my fault._

The events of the previous night stood fresh in his mind, like a bright red gash, like words scratched in indelible ink. The guards had intervened, holding back the young King, but no one could hold back his words. They would ricochet in Cedric's head for days and days, louder at first, then quiet, so quiet they started to resemble his own voice, and they never really went away.

_I merely grant wishes_ , the Well said. _And tears are not riches._

Something snapped, and Cedric found himself rummaging his pockets for the last two coins of his allowance. His training and good sense strongly advised against this―but what good had ever come from being careful with it? _Nothing_ , he thought bitterly, _nothing at all._

_I wish they'd just... see me,_ he stuttered, his spirit in shreds. _See that―I've done all I could, that it wasn't my fault... I just want―_

_Your wish has been granted_ , the Well said, but nothing happened. _You have two wishes remaining._

Nobody came running to apologize and tell him he did nothing wrong. Nobody let him crumble and build himself back up―he could stay in pieces for all they cared. Arm wrapped almost too tight over his aching middle, Cedric gritted his teeth and hurled the last coin into the Well's ready mouth, anger rising and crashing like a great wave over him.

_I wish to find out where the Amulet of Avalor is!_ he shouted then, his heart charred with dark intent. _And once I get my revenge, they'll see―they'll all see―_

Before he could finish, the Well told him his wish had been granted, and that he had one wish remaining. Again, nothing happened.

_Just my luck_ , he had muttered, bundling angrily in his robe to crawl back to the tower, the place everyone tells him he belongs to, as though saying it will somehow make it true.

"This thing still works, then," Cedric says, to snap himself out of the memories, glancing up at Wormwood. "I was led to believe... the magic had run out, after the Royals' wishes."

"I thought the same," Wormwood says. "But that day I chased Princess Sofia, I saw it in use, and I... ended up making the same mistake."

The Well's metallic smile, though it shouldn't, seems to widen.

"I am quite strong in this time, as Wormwood here has been so generous with his payments," it interjects. "And I see he has decided for the best, despite all his doubts. You shall be rewarded, Your Majesty."

"Is this how it played you? Taunted you with your age, and drew you in with the Crown?" Cedric asks, a deep unease settling in his stomach at the Well's words.

The raven's eyes are wide and downcast, lines of disgust deep around his mouth as he nods once, like it pained him to do so.

"I have been… a fool," he breathes. "I…"

"Nevermind now," Cedric interjects, holding up a hand. "It admitted the Family Wand is powering it, and now it's talking like it can _think._ We really must―"

Something slithers in the mist, near Cedric's feet. It brushes against his ankle and makes him jolt, tearing an alarmed yelp from his throat. It's a vine, he realises, looking to the green climber to his right and recognising the pointy oval shape of blackberry leaves. As he steps away, the small thorns catch unpleasantly in his sock.

Unbothered, the Well addresses the raven, "I am deeply grateful, as you've brought to me what I asked for," it says. "Now, if you were so kind as to open my lock, dear Wormwood, I will presently grant you the ability to use magic. Just as promised."

Cedric steps back, his limbs chilled with unease, a dull sound rushing to his ears even as he attempts to keep calm, and fight down the rekindled sense of betrayal. _He's at my side_ , he thinks forcefully, staring down at the dozens of vines creeping on the ground towards him, like an army of thin green snakes. _I have decided to come here. He tried to stop me. The Well asked him, but he told me the truth, and tried to stop me instead. He's at my side._

"You filthy liar―I haven't _brought_ him here," Wormwood snarls at the Well, disgusted. The raven glances at him, his expression still hard and filled with such hatred―but when their eyes meet, Wormwood immediately falters, "I know how this looks, but please―"

"I believe you," Cedric cuts him off, but his voice comes out high and frightened all the same.

"Do not fret, little sorcerer," the Well says sweetly. The vines slide higher, curving and twisting in a tangle after his retreating feet. "It is marvellous timing, for you to be here right on this night! By the power of your bloodline, you will do _perfectly_."

The tangle snaps fast around his ankles, like a bear trap. He leaps away, crying out in pain when one of his feet is caught, and he's yanked flat on his stomach in the brittle grass. His dropped wand disappears under the vines that slither all around, as though they had spawned from the mist itself ― _I'm surrounded_ , he realises, trying to twist his foot free, heart hammering in his throat.

Right then, a blast of static makes the vines break and retreat, hissing. A cutting spell, quick and efficient, from the same wand the Well has provided.

"Keep your filthy appendages off him," Wormwood growls at the main body of the climber, still barely visible. Then, to him, almost begging, "Quick, use your last wish, and get the real Family Wand back."

"Are you _kidding_?" Cedric gasps, still kicking the piece of vine off his leg. "This thing wouldn't accept my _soul_ as payment for that. Don't you see how much power the Wand is yielding?"

"Look, I just want you to be out of here," Wormwood says earnestly, marching towards him with his free hand outstretched. "So, if you have a better idea, it's time to use it!"

Cedric's legs are laden with fear, so he crawls towards that reaching hand, reaching back. "But I _must_ ―"

A vine slaps between their outstretched hands like a whip. Wormwood is quick to blast it away with another cut, and Cedric realises it's a wind spell, so sharp and well-aimed it cuts like an axe through the tough fibres. So taken with the painful thorn of hope in his heart, Cedric doesn't even feel the draining of energy it entails.

"You dare oppose me, you ungrateful avian?" the Well roars, now completely removed from its usual monotone, snapped vines retreating.

" _Yes_ ," Wormwood snaps, the now familiar sarcastic sneer in his voice taken to its most aggressive, dry octave. He is an impressive sight, towering before him in his billowing cloak, conjuring wind to clear the fog away. "I will not let you harm him again."

The Well _cackles,_ a sound as jarring and dissonant as a straining metal brake. "Do not blame the Wishing Well for your stupidity, raven-child. All I do is grant wishes."

The fog lifts, revealing the full extent of the bramble's main body. The stalks sprouting from the broken soil are thick as tree-trunks, engulfing the bare chestnut tree and the whole side of the hedge. The thing keeps coiled onto itself, like a great green octopus stranded on land.

Something that looks like a branch, composed by many tendrils wrapped around one another in a sharply pointed spiral, hisses in the air right above Cedric's left ear.

"Try a fire spell," he says in an undertone, dodging. "So I can get at least my normal wand back."

Wormwood looks at him, and he knows what he's thinking: fire spells require a great deal of energy, and by now they both know who provides it. With a nod, he gives Wormwood permission, and braces for the toll it will take.

Wormwood aims the spell at the base of the bramble, hoping to cut the battle short. The plant lifts the vines on the ground to shield itself, uncovering Cedric's dropped wand. As the branches used as shield shrivel up and fall to pieces, sizzling, Cedric darts forward and snatches the wand up in triumph.

"It worked!" Wormwood cries. "Let's burn the bloody weed to the ground."

Wands raised like scorpion tails, they start attacking from two sides. They have never fought together, but as they dart and lead the thing to tangle and knot, their steps have the confidence of rehearsed dance. _He's on my side_ , Cedric tells himself again and again, clinging to the thought like a lifeline in the heat of battle, gritting his teeth against the loss of energy behind every shot the raven lands. _He's not wasting a single one. He's on my side._

"Enough!" the Well bellows, in the tone of a peeved teacher. "I have grown tired of this little game. Let's end this."

A vine hisses fast towards Cedric's head, but he doesn't even need to dodge. Wormwood, out of nowhere, grabs it in his bare hand, steps on the length of it, and breaks it in a single, harsh snap.

"Hah! We can do this all day, you metallic meddler," Cedric crows from behind him.

Softly, the Well says, "That was a mistake."

The main body sways, uncoiling, and tendril after tendril wraps around the snapped one. They form a fist, a battering ram that moves through the air with the whistle of a fired cannonball. Seeing one step ahead, Cedric feels the blood drain from his face.

"Duck!" he yells at Wormwood, but the thing comes at him too fast. It socks the raven right in the stomach, and sends him flying to the other side of the clearing. When he lands heavily into the bare hedges, the ground shakes under Cedric's feet. " _Wormy_!"

Cedric barely has the time to take a step towards him, when the branch comes shooting after him instead.

He's fast, and this time he's ready: all the years he spent dodging chewed paper balls and his own misaimed spells are finally paying off. He flicks his wand in a diamond shape, and ducks behind the silver shield thus created. When the branch rams into it, the bones of his arms rattle with the force of the blow, but the shield withstands.

" _Hah!_ " he sneers, jaw clenched in a tense grin, whole body quivering with the effort of holding the wand up, the spell in place. Pushed back by the mighty force, he feels his heels dig into the soil. "You thought I would be so easily―"

"Cedric―behind you!" Wormwood heaves, staggering forth with an arm around his ribs, pointing urgently. Cedric makes to turn around―

The sound reaches him first, a sort of wet crunch overlapping with Wormwood's voice― _No, no,_ the raven cries, over and over―then the impact, in his upper back, like something sharp has just been thrown at him. The push is at once sudden and prolonged, stinging―he's shoved down on his knees, and his shield dissolves. Instead of crushing him, the branch falls lifeless to the ground.

He hears the raven let out a bloodcurdling scream, like he were being skinned alive―it's his name, Cedric perceives somehow, but garbled, barely intelligible. Wormwood looks like he's seen his worst nightmare, eyes trained on a point a little below Cedric's chin, his face so twisted in pain and horror.

_What is it?_ Cedric tries to ask him, but his voice refuses to come out: the hit has knocked all the air from his lungs, and his heartbeat is too loud, deafening, each beat like a burning drum. For a moment, he feels nothing but a great confusion. He looks down.

Protruding a little left from his sternum, running his chest straight through, is a thorny green vine the size and reach of an arrow.

In the empty echo of his own breath, he stares down at it in utter astonishment. Blood glistens on the bright green fibres, bits of fabric caught in the small thorns. His stomach gives a sudden, mighty lurch, and he bends over to cough out blood-streaked acid.

The burning starts so low he barely notices, too distracted with the horrid taste in his mouth―it is a vise, clamping over his chest and shoulder so tight, his pulse heavy around the thing stabbing him, until it grows unbearable. He's down on all fours and he doesn't know how he got there, dry heaving and shuddering.

Then, the vine curves upward, like a fish-hook, and starts to _pull_. He hears his ribs creak, like rusty door hinges. Someone is screaming, in his own voice, and great waves of pain-induced nausea wash over him―through the blur in his eyes, he catches a glimpse of Wormwood's horror-stricken face, and a wall of green things rises around him, a thorny cocoon with no escape.

He is lifted, blinking in and out of consciousness―the beating of his heart growing rarefied, not a drum anymore, but a flutter, a whisper―and he feels all the emptiness of his weight in his twisting gut, in the hook buried in his heart.

Then, the vines fasten around him, the plant pulses and stifles, constricting, as though it wanted to rip his limbs off, the thorn in his chest growing redder, the chilling sound of suction filling every inch of him with terror.

In the haze of pain, he sinks into buried memories. His feet are not numb, but wet, then his ankles and knees and thighs, and he loses his breath when the inevitable tide gets to his chest. It feels like kicks, pricks and needles. Like being swallowed. The water rises, and his nails sink useless into the slimy rock all around him, saltwater still stinging through his screwed-shut eyelids.

_Make it stop_ , he begs, almost a last wish. And all light leaves him.


	17. Snow White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is one bad idea after the other.

Sofia crosses the deserted gardens at a run, as though something was on her kitten’s tail once again.

_Nothing’s on my tail_ , she had to tell herself. She knows the way, and the eerie purple light of her Amulet splits the fog in front of her, like the icebreaker ship she's seen one time, far off the coast, in the coldest winter of her life. Her hurried steps deadened on the brittle grass, the Gardens are nothing but silence, right until she gets to the Well's gate.

There, even after all she’s seen since the Amulet had been clipped around her neck, the scene that unfolds before her still brings her to pinch her goosebumps-covered arm in incredulity.

“Wormwood...?” she calls out to the raven, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.

She would laugh, maybe, at how absurd it all looks. If her scalp wasn't prickling with raised hair and her feet weren't ice-cold in her lilac shoes, if sunlight was there instead of all this smothering fog, and if there wasn't that odd acrid smell pinching her nose so hard.

Now she wishes Clover had come with her. She could laugh, if Clover was there to make a joke―if he and Wormwood could bicker, and if the raven had his usual collected smirk on his face, instead of―

“What are _you_ doing out here?!” Wormwood shouts at her, and the snarl of his voice makes her choke on her words for a moment. He hasn’t turned to look at her: his eyes are trained to the Wishing Well and what surrounds it.

High up, suspended above the Wishing Well's little roof, there is a sort of green egg-shaped _thing_. She squints: it looks like it’s made of leafy vines wrapped and twisted over each other. It might be pretty, in a way, so shockingly lush and _green_ in the greyed cut-out, with some bright red leaves towards the top.

“I-I came to help!” she shouts back, her voice shrill in the war-zone that has been made of the clearing. “Wormwood, what’s going on?”

The raven doesn’t answer. His narrowed eyes _burn_ as he stares at the green thing―like there is nothing he hates more in the entire universe. In a movement so fast she barely sees it, he leaps over and hacks at the slithering twisted mass, like he’s trying to break through it with his teeth and claws alone.

_Why is he so angry at that thing?_ Sofia wonders, espying the raven's fine features, so twisted in his fury he looks like those ancient Wei-Lin theatre masks. The plant moves, slithering and crawling like giant green earthworms. She shudders a bit, hesitating to step closer. _Why doesn't he use magic?_

Punched hard by a thicker structure of intertwined vines, Wormwood lands hard on his back and the earth vibrates under her feet. He’s bleeding from a cut to his temple― _thorns_ , Sofia notices―but Wormwood doesn't stay down for long: all of his claws dig down into the soil in the haste of getting himself back up, to run at the thing again.

Sofia would have never guessed he could jump so high, how loud and frightening his war-cry would sound, how long and sharp his teeth would look all exposed in a feral grimace.

Yet, it's the other voice―the voice that is soothing and metallic, the voice that she _recognises_ ―that puts new chills on her bare arms.

“If you had just used the wand I've given you, and broken my lock, instead of making such a fuss,” the voice says invitingly. “I would have returned him to you already.”

“You're _lying_ ―like _hell_ I'm making deals with you, you―” and Sofia cannot help but cover her ears, and watch transfixed as the raven rears his head back and curses the Well at the top of his lungs. “Give him back _this instant_ ―!”

Though she is sure they were together when she saw them in the crystal ball, Sofia finally notices the missing piece in this disconcerting puzzle.

“Wormwood,” Sofia yells, putting two and two together and staring up in horror at the pod of thorns above them, “is Mr. Cedric... trapped in _that_?”

The raven barely spares her a glance, back to hacking and tearing at the makeshift trunk. His claws cut deep, snapping the crawling woven tendrils, but he doesn't seem to be making any progress in breaking the thing open.

“What do you think?!” he growls, punching the fibres with so much momentum the wind lifts in Sofia's face. His knuckles are in _really_ bad shape.

“But _how_ ―?”

“This _thing_ is controlled by that _bloody Well_ ―no time to explain!” The branches shoot out and slam the raven to the ground again. Straining against them, he shouts, “Cedric is wounded, I cannot use magic―if you came to help, find a way instead of running your mouth!”

Sofia gasps. _Wounded!_ She looks around for something to use as a weapon, a stick, a branch― _a wand!_ Mr. Cedric's purple wand lies there, on the dug-up grass. She dives to it.

Waving it, she calls to the raven, “Tell me how to help you!”

“Attack spells!” He kicks wildly against his bindings, and breaks free with a mighty growl. “Use any attack spell you can think of!”

Sofia’s back chills over with sweat.

“I… I don't know any!” she cries, splaying her hands. So _this_ is how Mr. Cedric feels when he can’t deliver the right spell on the spot? No wonder he’s always so nervous! “They don't teach you those at Princess School!”

“ _Figures_ ,” Wormwood spits. He fights back another assault, struggling. “Anything!”

_Anything_ , she repeats on the brink of panic, _anything, anything, anything_. And something from over a year ago flashes in her mind like a flint-spark.

“ _M-Mutato Emeraldi!_ ” she shouts, with all the confidence she can muster.

Not that much, really. Not enough at least: her spell hits one of the roped branches, and changes it into a jumbled rope of green gems. The mass flops stiffly to the ground, twitching, and Sofia glances in amazement down at the wand.

“Hey―it worked!”

Then, the lumpy thing cracks like a stone whip. Sofia's hands fly to her mouth, muffling a scream. _Oh no_ , she thinks, as it lashes down hard on the raven's face and chest, _it can still move it, oh no_.

“… _indeed_ ,” Wormwood coughs, spitting blood to the side. And his eyes are still fixed up there, to the pod, like nothing else exists. He’s heaving, his lip split and his hair sticking down with sweat, and in his eyes there's a desperation no one has let Sofia see on their face before. She feels it like it is her own, for a long sharp moment.

“I'm sorry,” she stutters, Mr. Cedric's wand almost dropping from her shaking grasp _._ “I'll... let me try talking to the Well!”

“No! No, Sofia, don't go near that―” but another blow from the emerald vine cuts Wormwood off. The noise of impact, stone to jaw, is that of a wooden pestle coming down in a mortar, and Sofia feels tears run hot on her cheeks. Her legs are frozen.

_I must_ , says a firm voice inside her, and she forces herself to move. She had hoped she would never have to go near that Well again. _But_ _I made it worse, now I must fix it._ Maybe if she runs to it all at once, she reasons, she'll outrun the fear snapping at her heels.

“That _Amulet_ ,” the Well breathes when Sofia nears it, with a chilling, soft intensity. The high voice isn't as mechanical as she recalled, and the Well's face-slab looks different too, almost expressive, almost... human? “I cannot let the Amulet be so near, not now that my power is nearly at peak!”

A vine, thick like a young branch and sharp as a spear, comes spinning towards Sofia so fast all she can feel is a whiff of cold air. Her teeth gritted, in the seconds dilated by fear, a flash of violet glows through her screwed shut eyelids.

When the acrid smell of sizzling green wood reaches her nose, she dares crack one eye open.

Wormwood is in her line of vision, knelt with his hand outstretched, as if he had just missed the green spear directed at her. The thing itself is crumbling to ashes before their eyes, writhing in the scorched grass like a living thing, a green leafy snake that just ran face-first into a wall of fire.

“It cannot touch it,” Wormwood mutters, staring. The Amulet's bright glow paints a strange light in his fevered eyes. “It cannot touch her Amulet. A three feet range―it might be enough...”

“What _is_ this thing, what happened?” Sofia squeaks, clutching the jewel in her hands. “My Amulet did that...?”

“Yes―I'll explain when we're all out of here,” the raven says urgently, covering the distance between them in a single, feral leap. In that terrible hard voice, he orders, “Get up, now.”

Sofia tries to move her stiffened legs, but before she can manage, Wormwood has bent and grabbed her at the waist. It's the same as when he lifted her to get the Crocus, but this time his bloodied hands leave smudges on her dress.

“Hey! What―” She twists in incomprehension, accidentally kneeing him in his split lip. A huff of hot air flares out his nostrils. “Oh no, sor―”

“Sofia,” the raven says intensely, as though nothing had happened. The fevered light shines again in his eyes, and he sees nothing but his aim. “I need you to _fly_ , and burn that thing down.”

They have to leap away as the plant tries to strike them, and Sofia's teeth clack on her answer. “Wait―I don't know how!”

“Let the Amulet burn it to the ground! Free him!”―it's the only warning before he pulls his arm back like a slingshot, and propels her into the air with the force of an enchanted swing―“ _Fly_!”

Sofia can't do much but watch the tangle of vines rush towards her, a sharp cry tearing from her throat. She shields her head, going through like an arrow, screaming.

The Amulet glows and burns and the smell smothers her, terrible and metallic, like rusty iron pokers forgotten in the fireplace. She opens her eyes a little, and she's inside the pod of vines.

“Mr. Cedric!” she calls, voice shrill.

He is in there, curled up and asleep as the red thorny tendrils crumble to ashes around him―Sofia has just the time to grab him, before the structure starts to collapse around them, under them, and she knows a ten feet drop awaits.

_I've seen worse_ , she thinks desperately, holding on to Mr. Cedric's arm for dear life, praying they miss the Well's roof, that another haystack magically appears to catch them. _I've seen worse, I've seen w_ ―something hits her hard in the stomach, knocking her breath out―but not as hard as the ground would. Sofia looks down, taking in the cape billowing under her.

She is propped on Wormwood's shoulder, a royal sack of potatoes. On her left, Mr. Cedric hangs limply from the raven's other shoulder. Wormwood must have leapt forward and caught them both in mid-air, before they could hit the ground.

The raven lands hard, falling to his knees and springing up immediately, running to what's left of the clearing's hedge. He stops, at a distance that seems safe, and lets Sofia climb down his side using his cape like a rope. She tries to thank him, still winded, but he's turned away from her, whispering to himself.

The soil tickles her feet: she lost her shoes somewhere. She turns back to the clearing and, alone, Sofia witnesses the monstrous bramble shrivel and hiss and burn to the roots.

Just then, picking up a stray piece of vine, she sees it's a thorny blackberry, the kind that grows abundantly in the back gardens, the kind Chef André bakes into delicious pies and muffins. The very fibres of the vine are dripping an odd red sap. _What is this?_ she wonders _, crushed fruits...?_

Her attention is diverted by a noise of splintered wood: the tall tree that stood at the hedge, now dead and brittle, needs only the weight of the collapsing bramble to come crashing down, right onto the Wishing Well.

The thing goes to pieces, in a crash of metal, wood, and stone, without a word. _My Amulet did that_ , she thinks, in stupefied awe. Was the plant _alive_ , like Miss Nettle's rose? _Why would it trap Mr. Cedric...?_

She turns to Wormwood, who doesn't seem to have noticed anything of what happened in the clearing. He's still whispering, and Sofia realises he isn't talking to himself. In a voice she didn't think could come out of his throat, so cracked and shaky, he's calling and calling for Mr. Cedric to wake up.

“I've told you, I've told you something bad was going to happen―I swear, if you don't wake up―” he repeats over and over. He has crouched down, sliding the sorcerer until he rests in the crook of his arm, feverishly plucking away the pieces of vine from his clothes. A panicked whisper all that's left of his voice, he mouths, “It's over now, please―”

Gradually, as an edge of lucidity settles on her rattled nerves, Sofia becomes aware of the wetness on her hands. She lifts them up to her eyes, and inspects the scratches that mar her to the elbows. Probably the blackberry thorns, she reasons. But her hands... they are _red_ , as though she had just made cranberry jam for another pie filling...

It's definitely not the first time she gets a scratch on her, so she knows she can't have bled that much from them. Absentmindedly, she picks up Mr. Cedric's purple wand, rolled nearby, and the Family Wand, not far either; she cleans them summarily along with her hands, on the hem of her dress. It means that all this blood is―

Hit by it so suddenly her head gives a spin, she lifts wide, fearful eyes on her two friends, and realises Mr. Cedric might not, after all, be asleep.

“W-wormwood, what happened?” she asks for what feels like the umpteenth time, desolated, stepping around them to see for herself.

Mr. Cedric, his poor purple robe in tatters, has burns all over his arms―the tendrils her Amulet burned off must have been wrapped tightly around him, she thinks anxiously. It looks really painful, but even if Wormwood keeps putting his hands on them in his efforts to wake him up, Mr. Cedric doesn't stir.

“Why won't he wake up...?”

“I don't _know_ ,” Wormwood says, in a hiss that is half a sob.

He moves his hand from Mr. Cedric's chest, to dab at the thin strip of blood trickling down his chin. He only smudges it some more, his hurt knuckles so raw and swollen. Sofia feels a lurch in her stomach. Then, her gaze slides down, to the area left uncovered by the raven's hand, and on Mr. Cedric's chest―

“There is―a hole there,” she squeaks, pointing at it. It's perfectly round, barely visible in the robe stained near-black. “It looks like... an arrow wound...?”

“A vine, like the one that almost hit you,” Wormwood croaks. “Ran him straight through, like it was nothing―why do you think I was in such a hurry?”

Sofia takes a breath, trying to remember her Buttercup first aid training. “Y-you should keep pressure on it,” she says, kneeling at Mr. Cedric's other side, and pulling out her white handkerchief to soak up the blood. _He's barely breathing_ , she notes distantly, pressing gingerly into the cold skin. _I almost can't feel his heartbeat_. “T-to stop the bleeding.”

The raven shakes his head, gesturing at the red drops barely climbing through the white fabric. Gravely, he mutters, “It... doesn't bleed much. Not anymore.”

That can't be right, if he's been ran through. The realisation hits her right in the stomach. The red sap, too, wasn't sap at all.

“It must be an enchantment,” she says, her eyes welling up again. She dries them stubbornly. The raven remains dejected, as though lost somewhere far away. “Maybe we can break it.”

“I don't―” Wormwood clips, “I'd have to scan him to see what's wrong. And I cannot. This is all my fault… and now I can't do anything to fix it.”

Sofia looks at the two wands she put next to her knee, and hands the black one back to Wormwood. “Can't you try, at least? Is it an advanced spell?”

“I―it's not that _simple_.” He hangs his head, and speaks without looking at her, his big hands trembling, “There are _limits_ to magic, and I have already... I've been doing spells using his magic until now, and if I use it again when he's like this, I'll kill him.”

Sofia's breathing hitches, her hands clutching Mr. Cedric's sleeve protectively. The idea should feel worse than this, she reasons, but it's too much to even start to think about. Mr. Cedric can't just _die_ and leave them, she reasons, there _must_ be a solution. She searches her friend's ashen face for answers; he reminds her of Snow White in her glass coffin, with his dark hair and cold pale skin, with his lips bloodied red.

“I... have an idea,” she says tentatively. Wormwood doesn't raise his head, one of his long ears barely twitching at her. “You should kiss him!”

And at her words, the raven does lift his eyes. Sofia has never seen them so wide, their bright emerald hue as innocent as newborn leaves. He splutters, “I should _what_?”

“There is a chance this is an enchanted sleep, right? So, a kiss might just break it. We have to try!”

“But,” the raven gestures, half-panicked, “he's not _awake_ ―I can't just... and how do you know it would even work?! Shouldn't I be a prince? Shouldn't it be _true love_ , or some fairytale nonsense?”

Sofia scoffs. “Well, don't you truly love him?”

“I―” Wormwood falters, and he looks as tortured as one of those witch trial victims painted in her history books. “I'm not sure... it's the right kind.”

“How could there be a wrong kind of love?” Sofia asks, with learnt certainty. “If anyone can do it, it is you, Wormwood.”

From the look on his face, so anguished, one would think she asked him to shove Mr. Cedric off a cliff or something. He takes a deep, steeling breath, whispers an apology, and leans in.

Sofia looks away: something in the raven's eyes, and in the way his long fingers cup Mr. Cedric's waxen cheek while leaning over him, feels like it's not for her to see. She waits for the little sound, the way her parents sound when they drop a kiss between them, but it's a kiss so small that there is no sound at all.

“What _in the name of_ ―” she hears instead, the raven’s voice thick with incredulity.

She whips around to see Wormwood fight to keep upright, one arm shakily propping on the ground across Mr. Cedric's shoulder, leaning the sorcerer down without dropping him as he struggles not to fall unconscious. A pulsing green light glows between them, glinting oddly on the wounds on Wormwood's face, and in the centre of Mr. Cedric's chest.

Wormwood is breathing hard, sweat trickling down his temple as he battles the enchantment pulling him down. But it is too strong: he collapses alongside Mr. Cedric, facedown on the ground, the arm slung over him like a final, desperate reach.

Sofia, after the first moments of stunned disbelief, leaps over to him to call and shake him awake. No answer. She is left in the dark clearing, her eyes glued to the bright green light.

_It was my idea_ , she thinks, chilled to the marrow. _I keep making everything worse... I should find help._

But something tells her the light mustn't get weaker, that she must stay and watch over it. That something important is happening, somehow, somewhere.

Sofia steps back from the pattern that expands at her feet, grass growing lush and soft in the shape of a magic circle. It's not any that she's ever seen, though, not even leafing through one of Mr. Cedric's advanced books. It resembles a curled plant, with tiny, snowflake-like leaves. Sofia has never seen it before.

Breath held and full of apprehension, she waits.

* * *

 

The maze falls away from the world right under Wormwood's gaze.

Then he blinks, and he's up in the air as though he had been lifted by the wind, updraught strong through his feathers, filling his open wings like sails. He is _flying_.

His body painless and compact, his bones light and his plumage gleaming black in the sunlight, his heart soars with pure, absolute relief. For a moment, just for a moment, he forgets his predicament, he forgets he was ever human, he forgets his own name.

The current pulls him to a rock at sea, an unknown place where the wind speaks a familiar dialect, and the smell takes him back to the tower, back home. On the nearby rocky shore, though none are in sight, he can hear the ruckus of crow and seagull calls. Even farther in the distance, a barely audible peal of bells.

When he alights on the flattish top of the seastack, the ones he lands on are his human feet. The transition was so smooth he wouldn't be able to pinpoint the exact moment he changed, as coordinates too vague to describe.

He moves a few steps in the brackish wind plastering his clothes to his body like tar, reacquainting with the weight and girth of a human form. _It must be a dream again,_ he would think. But the waves slam white foam almost up to his ankles, and look too intensely real to be a dream.

He can feel how treacherous the rock is under his toes, how ready to crumble and trap. His breath halts and his gaze, as though destiny guided it, darts to a fissure in the rock, no more than two feet wide.

“So... this is _that_ place,” he mutters, stepping towards it. His heart starts beating loud in his throat as he nears the edge, fists clenched. Bravely, he leans over to peer down the hole in the rock. _Cedric,_ he thinks, _what has been of―_

“You'll find nothing in there, raven,” a voice says behind him, and he almost falls in from the scare. He braces his hands back on the brittle limestone, and a glance down the tight crevice confirms the voice spoke the truth: from the jagged walls of the hole, only the foxfire from his night out in the forest blink back at him.

He turns around. A woman is standing opposite of him, blue robes fluttering in the overcast light. It takes him a moment to recognise her: her form has been different, older, for a very long while.

“ _Winifred the Wise_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even Sofia does everything right all the time. Guest Star, Winifred the Wise (!)


	18. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tale of mothers, sons, and heroes.
> 
> Blood tw

After a long, disconcerting pause, the blue-clad woman concedes Wormwood a nod.

Indiscernibly younger―a decade? Two decades? Humans age so slowly, the raven could never tell―Cedric's mother looks _different_.

Slightly taller and leaner, of course, with her dark auburn hair curling in loose ringlets still down to her waist; harsher around the edges, with fewer lines on her round face. But there is something else, the aura of her past just behind her, commanding respect; that evil gleam in her eye―the one Cedric wishes he had inherited―that she is still not wont to keep hidden.

Winifred the Wise snaps her fingers at the thick end of her wand, puts the tip to her mouth and inhales. The thick end lights up like a pipe’s chamber, and the foxfire gleams on the bare rocks.

“I can tell you have many questions for me.” The sorceress smirks, blowing a perfect circle of light blue smoke at Wormwood. He suppresses a cough. “You may start with one.”

_Where am I, what are you doing here,_ and _where is here_ are only the first few that press at the raven’s throat.

“Do you know where Cedric is?” is what comes out of his mouth instead, in a tone less light and casual than he would have liked. Winifred the Wise smirks at him. A shark’s smile.

“So eager. Soon enough, you will see,” she says, her voice loud and clear across the muffled rustle of water. As she looks up, perusing the sky for something, she continues, “You were very easy to bring here. You wanted to reach something, you weren’t just flapping about.”

“Yes, because I’m looking for―”

“Not the same can be said for my son―he is around here _somewhere_ ; I've been trying to anchor him for a while now. What a stubborn child.”

“Maybe he isn't keen to be back on this forsaken rock,” Wormwood suggests, piqued. Yet somehow, he's sure they aren't really in their homeland up North. The foxfire is a dead giveaway, really. He heaves a sigh. “Look, Ma’am, the situation is chaos out there. I don't think I have much time―who are you, really? An apparition? What am _I_ doing here?”

“Patience,” the young Winifred admonishes, shifty eyes still searching intently. “I am no more than an Imago, a projection left behind by my caster. From here, I've been watching over her spell, that so long has lain dormant in the blood of her son.”

_In his… blood?_ Her words bring a chill up Wormwood's back. “Where would _here_ be, exactly?”

“We are on the very threshold of the Netherworld, in the place where the child had his first brush with it.”

“Brush with what?”

“With _Death_ , dear.”

The Imago ignores his subsequent groan of vexation, distracted by the sprout of sparkles out of the lit end of her wand.

“Oh, finally,” she pipes up, exhaling all the smoke in a blue cloud, and yanking down her wand as though she were whipping  a draft horse.

Wormwood’s ears perk at the distant whistle of something falling from the sky.

“Whoops, crash landing,” she says, conversationally. “Be a dear and catch him, will you?”

Wormwood hates to obey her, but he still squints upwards and moves into the falling thing’s trajectory. Cedric lands in his arms with a soft _flump_. On contact, he gasps awake and squints up at him, as though he had the midday sun in his face.

“Wormy...? What―where...” he slurs, lifting both hands to rub his eyes.

Wormwood notices his sleeves before anything else: intact, not a single rip in them. He feels his arms almost give out from relief, and holds a little tighter. _He’s alright. I got him. He’s alright_.

Cedric seems in good shape, in fact: normal pale and not brink-of-death pale, robe all in one piece―no wound in his chest. It brings a sigh of relief that tastes saline at the back of Wormwood’s throat, and he has to force himself to keep his composure and set Cedric down to his feet. Eyes darting behind his unblemished fingers, Cedric takes in their surroundings. He hides a cringe in his palms.

“Oh,” he whines, “but why are we _here_ , of all places...?”

The raven clears the thickness from his throat. “Your dear mother will tell us, hopefully.”

“My...?” Cedric whips around, and bumps back into Wormwood in surprise. “ _Mummy_?! What are _you_ doing here?! And why are you so... young?”

Winifred doesn't answer. On her face, she has that same guileless wide-eyed look of pure astonishment that Cedric too gets sometimes, staring dumbfounded at her adult son.

“Oh, my... that spell has lain dormant for _a lot_ longer than expected,” she murmurs, looking him up and down, her long nose wrinkled. Winifred's face a bit slimmer in her just-fading youth, the resemblance between them is almost uncanny. “My, what happened to my cute little boy?”

Cedric's shoulder drop a little. “Oh, I―well, it's... a long story,” he mumbles, clearly hurt. Wormwood tenses, but the sorcerer glances back up at him, and the urge to maim is diverted by the crease of worry between Cedric's brows. “Wormy, what are _we_ doing here? Weren't we battling some overgrown bramble?”

“You've been gored through the chest, and trapped,” Wormwood fills him in, willing his voice steady. Cedric just blinks at him, patting the untarnished front of his clothing, somewhat absently. He brushes his left temple, looking puzzled.

“Why don’t I recall… wait. Am I _dead_?” He gulps, and whatever little colour he had in his face drains away. “Oh no, are _you_ dead?”

“Not yet. We are just on the _threshold_ , whatever that is,” Wormwood says, glaring at the sorceress.

“But _how_ …?”

“The Amulet of Avalor burned the bramble down. We freed you, but you wouldn’t wake… Sofia thought it might be enchanted sleep rather than blood-loss, so she suggested I play your Prince―then I was flying and―”

“Wait, wait, what is _Sofia_ doing out there?!” Cedric gasps. “You let her see―you made her _fight_?! And what―wait, you _what?_ ”

Wormwood gestures helplessly, flustered. “It was an emergency! I had to try _something_!”

“Wormy, not in front of the _Princess_!”

“Now, that's a lot of fuss to intermingle a drop of blood,” the Imago’s voice interjects, between perplexed and intrigued. They turn to her, startled, and a shared glance is enough to confirm they both forgot she was there.

“A drop of blood... is that how we were brought here? Wait...” Cedric starts. Then he shuts his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, realisation dropping on him like the World on Atlas’ shoulders. “Don't tell me. There was _another_ spell on me.”

“There he is, my bright witchlet,” Winifred smiles her odd smile. Cedric shudders. “You're right, but tell me, why wait so long? And why wait to be in the midst of _battle_? Any good old fasting or ice-bath would have worked, really.”

Cedric’s hands leave his face, descending in a stiff flutter of half-formed gestures. He stares at his mother’s Imago and his chin juts out, the tendons of his neck strained in tension, and he takes in a very, very deep breath.

“Because, _Mother_ ―I _Did. Not. Know_ ,” he spells out, clawing the air in exasperation. “Neither you _or_ Father bothered to _tell me_ I've been walking around for decades with suspended spells on myself! What is it this time? Another Protection Charm? Did you―I mean, did Mother also think I couldn't survive my own incompetence?”

Winifred's eyes gleam. “Oh! I see why it activated so late... of course, Goodwyn would do that. The soft-hearted fool, always disapproving of my methods.”

Wormwood and Cedric exchange another glance: Goodwyn the Great is and was always many things. Gifted, yes; strict, enough; callous, _definitely_. But _soft-hearted_ , of all things―

“So you had this Protection Charm on, preventing you from bleeding, yes?” Winifred’s Imago asks, sounding intrigued. “How were you able to break it?”

“I was the one to break it,” Wormwood mutters, and he can't keep the loathing out of his voice. The sorceress snorts. “I created this abomination of a climber, and got it addicted to Cedric's magic. I―” He inhales to continue, but Cedric elbows him in the ribs. “It was an accident.”

“A little bird, messing up Goodwyn's spells.” Winifred starts to giggle, then breaks into a full-blown evil cackle, almost tearing up. They stand and stare, rubbing their goosebumps. “Well, these are the things that happen when you give your animals human forms, sometimes. They can end up a tad over-powered.”

“Actually, I did that myself as well,” the raven clips, and this time he doesn't try to give the specifics. “Wishing Well, magic loop, dying island. A mess.”

“ _Huge_ mess,” Cedric echoes.

The sorceress blinks at them.

“This is all highly unorthodox,” she says. “But you show great enterprising spirit, I like it.”

“Yes, alright,” Cedric interjects, hands to his temples once again. “Imago, answer me: when was this spell cast, exactly? What was Mother’s _purpose_ with it?”

At once, the air shifts, light shifting colder and wind pulling at their clothes like an insistent hand. The smell changes too, although Wormwood couldn’t place how.

“Oh, at last!” the Imago’s voice grows as the echo inside a cave, and her eyes take a diffused blue glow. “You ask the right question.”

“Drat, did I activate…?” Cedric groans in an undertone. Wormwood hesitates.

In her best, most stentorian narrator’s voice, the Imago intones, _“Once upon a time, there was a little boy who loved the windy shores near his home.”_

“Yes,” Wormwood deadpans, “yes, you did.”

The Imago starts weaving the story into being, unravelling it like yarn from a basket. She puffs from her wand and the shivering air fills with smoke and the glow of foxfire. Their eyes water slightly as the strong chlorine smell mixes with the ocean’s salt. Once they get used to it, they start to see the ghostly figures that appear at the wave of her hand, thicker wisps of blue with washed out touches of colour. Many are birds, crows and ravens and seagulls, flutter of feathers giving body to the noise in Wormwood's ears.

Winifred has a great collection of stories, they know. Stories of war and magic and love and more war. The one of how she conquered a rival clan with a single flick of her wand. The strange tales from lands far away across the ocean, that the Talking Dragons had told her around the campfire. How Goodwyn could ask her hand in marriage only after defeating her in a duel. As fledglings, all of those stories had left them wondering how much truth there was to them, but kept their attention nevertheless.

This is a different story: this one has undeniably happened and, as the figure of a child appears out of the eerie magic smoke, the reality of it weights in the pit of the raven’s stomach like a stone.

The child has the kind of features humans would say need to be _grown into_ , even if they never did. Pale and feeble in his knee-pants and shirtsleeves, with a fluffy thatch of black hair, and pasty round cheeks blotched red from exertion.

“ _Cedric_ ,” Wormwood breathes, and the adult one at his side starts a little.

“The boy had heard that, if you lean close enough, the sea will tell you things. Secret, powerful things only the wisest of our kind can learn. And he, already set to the quest for power, wished to confirm it for himself.”

In a strange haze, they watch the small figure leap fearlessly from stone to stone, peering in the wet crevices for actinia and goose barnacles and magic whispers.

“But,” the Imago says darkly, and the sky above them looms grey and daunting, “the sea is always hungry, and it lays traps of rock to fill its belly. The little boy had his head in the clouds, and his eye always too far from where his foot fell.”

The child, inevitably, leans into the hole, the deep one with a bucketful of ocean at the bottom, gurgling and rustling like a hungry gorge, a throat of stone ready to swallow. He is held up by luck and precarious balance, his little toes on one edge and his hands on the other, peering in. The tide is low, and the rough inner walls are covered in dark seaweed, each day dried up and reborn within the rising waters. He listens.

“It's crumbling,” Wormwood says in alarm, eyeing the limestone under the boy's curled fingers, his careless unsteady grip. The rock cracks and chips away. Wormwood takes a step forward, as though he could grab the child and catch him before he falls in. He snaps at Winifred, “How can you stand this?”

Cedric holds him back by his sleeve. “You can't stop it,” he hisses. The knuckles buried in Wormwood’s sleeve are bone-white, but Cedric’s voice is firm, and a crease of disgust hardens his thinned mouth. “It's the past. He's going to fall.”

It all happens in a moment. The rock gives, the child gasps and falls in, scraping into the sides all the way down. There is a crack, and a feeble cry. The adult Cedric at Wormwood's side reflexively grabs his elbow, sucking in a hiss.

“The sea is always going to swallow,” the Imago states, her voice a pitiless knell. “And the tide is always going to rise.”

The fallen child holds still, sitting in shock until the saltwater turns his wounds the dull white of bleached bones. Then, he starts to break into sobs, then to wail, a heart-wrenching lilting sound―Wormwood cannot stand it, his ears lowering until they flatten to the sides of his head.

The raven's hands ache to reach in and pull the boy out―it would take so little, a bit more than the length of his arm, and he could pull him out, like a root from the soil, and he would be safe. He wonders if the real Winifred could bear to watch her precious son give in to panic as the water rises around his trapped form.

“I am always going to fall,” Cedric whispers, voice suddenly higher, cracking.

Wormwood glances back at him, the object of his worry shifting. Hearing his own voice, left in a hole to cry all night, Cedric’s face went ashen. The tremble in his hands has spread to his whole body, his eyes welling up in tears.

“Stop it!” Wormwood snaps at the sorceress, stepping between Cedric's frozen figure and the blue ghosts of three decades past. He feels it keenly, a realisation as sharp as a talon: something of him has chipped off that day, and it stayed there, abandoned at the bottom of the sea. He unclasps Cedric’s ice-cold hands from his cape, and holds them tight in his own. “What is the purpose of this?”

“Reminiscence,” the Imago answers. Her plump, ring-loaded hand points back to the edge. “Observe.”

“Observe _what_?” Wormwood asks, in his voice the same snarl he directed to the Well. “There is nothing to see here, except you torturing your son for no reason―”

“The ravens,” Cedric murmurs, transfixed. Wormwood looks down at him, hovering closer as a tear rolls down his cheek, his eyes trained to a point above the raven’s shoulder. “The ravens were there.”

“Ravens are practical creatures,” Winifred says. A flock of great black birds chases away most of the competition from the seastack, sharp claws ripping white feathers, sharp bills calling in joy and delight. “If there is going to be a feast, they'll all gather for it.”

“A feast,” Cedric echoes, his voice a crestfallen tremble of breath against the raven's neck.

Wormwood's stomach twists into knots, clenched so tight there is barely space for air. He can't refute the Imago’s words, cannot deny the ravens’ intent, because the voices of his kind are loud and clear around them, unmistakeable.

_We have to wait for the tide: it will float it out for us_ , a harsh voice says, belonging to a smallish female with a scar across her eye. _By then, the rocks will have cut it right up for us!_ And the others respond with equal, gruesome enthusiasm. Wormwood shudders.

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, apologising for what happened before his birth, apologising on behalf of the whole of the species he knows nothing of, for the whole of nature and its cruel laws. “I'm sorry they weren't there to help you, instead.”

He holds onto Cedric's hands, so small in his, tense and blue-nailed with fright. He wants to wrap around him until he’s hidden, shielded from those past horrors, and tell him, _I won’t let any more pieces be chipped off. I'll do anything to keep you safe._

Nodding to the vision, Cedric whispers, “But they did. Look.”

The flock doesn't get to sate its hunger: in their hopeful wake, they make noise to keep their rivals away from the loot, and their cries finally catch an observant ear. Winifred the Wise―so young she is just identical to her Imago―comes running to collect her son.

As the sorceress carefully levitates the fainted child out of the rock, the scarred female raven looks ready to wage war on mankind.

Yet, when she flies close enough, the she-raven appears to recognise the human woman. She lets the matter go, wings tense with contempt. Distantly, Wormwood notices her undamaged eye is bright green.

“Your mother and I had history, Wormwood,” the Imago says. “I lent her my rock-ravens on more than one occasion, to fatten up her little army. She kept a large turf and cultivated a conquering streak, and didn't much trust her own kind, old Artemisia.”

_I saved one of yours, human,_ the scarred she-raven― _my mother_ , Wormwood thinks, stunned―says haughtily. _See you save one of mine one of these days._

Wormwood's head is spinning. He doesn't know anymore if he's holding Cedric's hands to comfort him, or to keep himself on his feet.

“This is when it came to me: it was a sign,” the sorceress says, softly and coldly, letting the vision fade into thin air as she opens her hands. “If I could bind another life to my son's, he would be steadied, strengthened, ready for the future I envisioned for him. It was all for good, in the end.”

Wormwood stares at the figures' outlines, growing faint with each moment past. The fierce physiognomy of his mother, her wing-strokes proud and strong. And the thin pitiful figure of the half-drowned child, sprawled on the rock like a stringless doll, his left arm bent at an angle human arms aren’t supposed to reach. The colour bleeds out of his hair, and runs down his face on the stone, like black tears. Then, he disappears with the rest of the vision, blown away in a gust of wind, no trace left of him.

“How was _any_ of this for good?” Wormwood asks harshly, his chest so tight his own ribcage squeezes the breath out of him.

“Well,” the sorceress explains, like it should be obvious, “without a first brush with the Threshold, compatibility with Familiar Magic cannot be assessed.”

“ _Familiar Magic_?!” Cedric scoffs, his voice rising sudden, so thin and brittle and incredulous. He lets go of Wormwood's hands to gesture, addressing the whole setting in his disbelief, the whole world. “Is _that_ what this is all about?”

Wormwood rakes his brain for what he knows, picked up over the years in sparse footnote mentions. It’s not much. Familiar Magic is an ancient, nearly forgotten art, practiced back in the day when those born or trained in magic still risked the stake. It's not the sort of thing the Hexley Hall folks dabble in: with its long history, and its raw and ambiguous nature, Familiar magic is believed to stand just at the hem of the Dark Arts’ shadowy cloak.

“Ma’am,” Wormwood attempts, “see reason.”

“She cannot,” Cedric snaps, nearly beyond himself with exasperation. “That isn't Mother. She is a shadow of the past, left over by the spell Mother set in place when… when she wasn’t thinking straight! She's not real.” He walks up to the sorceress and, with forceful certainty, puts his arm through her. The image of her wavers, incorporeal as a ghost. Cedric’s voice a little more shrill, he says, “See? We don't have to listen to her.”

“Glad Goodwyn hasn’t whipped _all_ the fight out of you, child,” the Imago sneers. “You might not want to listen, but given the circumstances, I’d argue this is the only chance of survival you have.”

“But I can't just... make a _pact_ like it's nothing,” Cedric all but shouts, frayed. “What do you take me for, _Mother_ , a witch?”

“A warlock, dear. You two barely even need the pact, really,” she says. “You are more than compatible, you are _suitable_. The first suitable pair discovered in over a century, actually.”

“We... we are?” Cedric gestures from himself to Wormwood like the air between them is made of threads, pulling him into the _we_ , into the _suitable_ , into the new knowledge he can’t resist. “How can you be so sure?”

“Do you think you’re here by chance, child? By chance, that a common raven lasted you three decades and then some? That you’ve been carrying your Threshold mark for so long?” Cedric reflexively runs a hand through his white fringe. The Imago nods. “Witch-streaks, for the witch-boy.”

Wormwood’s mind is afloat with sparse notions. A _Familiar_ is an animal companion. A Familiar can use magic, shift shape to act as aid or messenger; can displace magic energy, move it back and forth between the pair, pouring it like water from an ewer. A Familiar feeds on the blood of their witch.

_Or warlock_ , he thinks, chilled over from head to toe. He’d rather be hit by the bramble’s ram a thousand times more. He’d rather―

Doubt crawls into his thoughts like an itch. Would… being a Familiar be any different from what he has been doing until now? If he could pour magic energy, would it be enough to save Cedric? They are compatible, Winifred says, _suitable_ even. Something rare, something _special_. Maybe they could ask some questions about it, at least, he wants to suggest.

“No, absolutely not―this is all _nonsense_ ,” Cedric mutters before he can get a word in, his stubborn frown like a barred door. “Witches and warlocks are _born_. Mother, the years I've worked for my training―I'm not like Father, nothing of what I have was _gifted_ to me. And I certainly won't make _pacts_ for it. To the end of my days,” he declares, straightening up until his stance matches his mother's, pointing his thumb to his chest, “I am a _sorcerer_.”

“Dearest,” Winifred says, almost sweetly, and in the glint of her eye Wormwood can tell this simple projection of the past has found a glimpse of herself in her adult son. “If that's the case, I have to tell you, the end of your days is going to come sooner than you think.”

She draws her arm in a wide gesture, and reality lifts, and crashes, and submerges.

_No_ , Wormwood thinks, watching Cedric sway on his feet, hold out an imaginary wand, as if he could stop it from happening . As though a wave of dirt had washed over him, Cedric’s appearance on the Threshold shifts to match the harsh truth. _No_ ― _not again_.

The moment he saw Cedric get hit, his own heart seized up like it had been gored. That terrible sound that came out of him―full of pain and incomprehension, like another piece of him had come off, lost forever at the bottom of the sea―echoed inside him as a ringing emptiness. And he could do nothing but stand, and scream.

Cedric folds over, running shaky fingers over his arms, his middle, his chest. “ _Ow_ ,” he gasps, coughing, hands clutching at his ragged clothing. “Oh―it _burns_ ―”

“Your heart has been pierced,” Winifred says bluntly, “the climber has gorged itself with your blood and power. You are _weak,_ and your time here cannot last forever. You have to make a choice, and we both know you want to survive. It’s who you are.”

Wormwood takes a step towards him, but at the sight of his hands Cedric nearly lets out a cry―and then another, when he looks up at his face. Too busy catching him in case he fell over, and consciously restarting his own breathing through the chokehold of anxiety, Wormwood hadn’t noticed that his own appearance has shifted.

“My, W-wormy, you look _awful_ ,” Cedric squeaks, even through the pain of his own wounds, on his face there is the same childlike anguish as when the raven mangled his wings in the wheel of a carriage, all those years ago. “What happened out there?”

He hesitantly brushes the raven's ruined face, near his split lip, and Wormwood is undone, unmade by that misplaced concern.

Wormwood starts, “We fought―” But Cedric grimaces, his jaw clenched in pain. “And it’s killing you… all because of me.”

“This… isn’t your doing,” the sorcerer rasps, faltering. “Don’t―”

Though his whole body feels like it has been chewed up and spat out, Wormwood drops to his knees to break his fall. Cedric's breathing is so rapid and shallow, a sparrow’s heartbeat in the raven’s helpless hands, feeble as though he were a step from crossing over.

“What… what must I do to stop this…?” he asks the sorceress, in a fearful whisper.

Winifred’s Imago opens her arms. “It all depends what you are willing to do.”

“Anything.” A hand fists in his cloak, tugging at him with its nervous force.

“Wait, listen to me, listen―” Cedric strains to say, but he can barely hold his head up, slumping against his arm. In a voice like a death rattle, he coughs out a few words and a little blood. “W-we don’t know how it works, we―”

“I'll do anything,” the raven presses, propping up the dying sorcerer, stubbornly turned to the Imago. “Just... just hurry.”

“Very well,” Winifred says, pleased. Sort of relieved, really, as though the whole ordeal was taking longer than expected. “The initiation of a Familiar starts with the first feeding.”

Cedric goes still against him. “Wormwood,” he says, sort of threateningly.

The raven knows what he must do, but he doesn't want to think of it, not with the memories of the carrion birds ready to feast on Cedric's lifeless body still seared in his eyes―he doesn't want to think of what Cedric will think of him.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, swallowing the emptiness in his throat. If it means saving his life, Wormwood can live with never being forgiven. He closes his eyes, steeling himself. “I'm sorry everything here is out for your blood.”

“Magic is part of nature, and its laws cannot be escaped, for they are as old and cruel as life itself,” Winifred drawls. “Through this, the Familiar will be able to pour back what he has only been taking.”

Wormwood breathes out, relief washing over him. He feels something unsaid hang, like a hidden threat, something he should ask about. But he needs only to tug the collar of Cedric's shirt down a little, and reveal the wound. It looks painful, blood and swelling and angry red skin, but it will pass soon, something tells him. The sorcerer's hand closes forcefully around his wrist, his hint of resistance halting him as though he wielded the power of Supreme Strength.

“Let me,” Wormwood croaks. Cedric is like an armful of knives in his hands, shaking in tension and exhaustion. Voice low, he begs, “Please, you'll die if you don't let me do this.” 

“No, you _idiot_ ―don't you see?! You'll be the one to die,” Cedric rebuts, hurtfully blunt in his haste, making no effort to contain the hysterical edge in his voice. “She’d have me use you as a... _failsafe―_ if you pour back enough energy to save me, it will kill you!”

Wormwood can only shake his head, a smile tugging at his split lip. At his words, the raven’s whole life has fell into place before him. There _was_ an enchantment over him: they have been linked since before Wormwood's egg could even touch the downy lining of Artemisia’s nest. All that he felt, it had reason, it had purpose. And he knows what his purpose is. It feels empty, and peaceful. A graveside of feeling.

Then, two hands slap hard on his cheeks, tilting his head until they’re eye-level.

“You said you wanted to be at my side,” Cedric reminds him, the keen rosewood of his eyes burning again with that chilling anger, his frown dark and tense, damp with sweat. “Were you lying? Were you _tricking_ me?”

“Of course not, but―”

“Then don't do this!”

“It's the only chance we have,” Wormwood repeats. “And after I do this, I would have to go on sucking life out of you, like a dirty parasite, no better than my mother who was ready to―isn't it better if it... just _ends_ for me, after all I've done?”

“The relationship between a warlock and his Familiar is more on the symbiotic side, rather than parasitic,” the Imago notes. “It's a waste of potential, Son, that you'll lose him so soon… but given the circumstances, at least he'll go fulfilling a Familiar's highest duty.”

Cedric _glares_.

“He will not,” he spits through his teeth, with surprising force for a man at the end of his tether. “Dying is not Wormwood’s _duty_! He's a living creature, he is _my_ raven.”

“He's never been just a raven. You both were always destined for this. It was meant to―”

“You _hush_ , projection!” Cedric shouts, and the grasp of his hands on Wormwood remains impossibly, painfully firm. His voice breaking, roughed up by exhaustion, he snarls, “He is _mine_ , you hear me? He won't be taken from me―I won’t allow it.”

“ _Please_ ,” the raven whispers. An ache is spreading through him, half sweet and half desperate; Cedric looks up at him that way that reminds him of soil and paintings and the smell of home, with that scorching intensity in his gaze. “You have to live on, and fulfil your dreams―whatever you wish to do, whomever you wish to reconnect with―” his voice dies a moment. “L-let me fix the mess I've put you in. Please.”

Cedric clutches at his shoulders, shaking his head.

“This mess is bigger than the two of us. This mess was set in place before you were even _born_ ,” he says angrily, yielding to the raven's hand tugging his tattered shirt open. He's straining to keep upright, leaning heavily against him, fighting to speak, “Wormy, aren't you supposed to have a survival instinct...? Isn't your life the thing you cherish most?”

And the raven cannot speak, and he hopes the tender cage of his arms conveys it enough. How wide, how freeing, to discover that he cherishes something even more than his own life; how open his chest feels, letting all the air and wind through. It's like flying again, just one more time.

“My life was already at its end,” he says, and it feels like absolution. This is the chance he had been waiting for: the ultimate, only atonement that will make up for all the pain and grief he has caused. “Now it's my chance to do something good with the time I've borrowed.”

As Wormwood dips his head to the wound, Cedric gives a small gasp. “Y-you've already fought for me, you don't have to atone anymore... we've _just_ started getting along again―you've just told me you wanted to be at my side―”

The blood is warm and coppery on his tongue, just as he remembers from his scavenging days. He threads carefully on the edges of torn skin, that grow smooth and whole under his touch. Cedric shivers all over, pulling on him slightly, a bitter tear sliding down the corner of his eye.

He hisses, “Why must _good_ always be sacrifice, for you heroes?”

Wormwood feels like he has been drinking for a long time, maybe all his life, a milking foal that knows nothing but the living warmth of his chest. His own wounds have stopped aching, his heavy bones have grown weary. Adding consequences has changed nothing: the world is still victory, or death.

He's tired, so tired.

“I'm no hero,” Wormwood slurs into his sternum, eyelashes brushing his rekindled heartbeat.

A shock of pain courses through his chest and down right arm, as though they were being clenched in a vise-like grip. He lets out a muffled groan, but holds his ground, and the throbbing pain ebbs away in a bit. Only distantly, he notes it is Cedric now the one holding him up.

Relieved, he sighs, “I just want this nightmare to end.”

“It won't end,” Cedric chokes, pushing words out of his clenched jaw, “old friend, don't―it will never end, if you leave me out there all alone.”

The raven cannot see clearly anymore. The sorceress’ Imago is doing something, completing the spell at the blurred edges of his vision. In his eyes, there's only Cedric, the rosy glow of his healed skin, the tears falling as rain on his face, and the wiry, nervous strength of his arms around him.

“It's enough,” Cedric stutters, his grip shaking, the greenish light surrounding them once again. “It's enough now. Please.”

_Goodbye, old friend_ , he wants to say. But he has no strength left to speak. As night falling over a long, long day, his eyes slide shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest Star, Artemisia the Raven


	19. The Widower King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, to make an understatement, tension escalates.

The raven opens his eyes.

Or rather, his eyes open. The action, if it weren’t anything more than an involuntary reflex, would be incongruous in nature: dead birds don’t open their eyes.

It still leaves space for regret. The light is low, but blinds him anyway, forcing him to blink away the hazy vision that persists at the edges of his field of view. The foxfire glistening on the bare rocks, the pinprick light of Winifred’s pipe. Tears glistening above him, like falling stars, like the afterimage of a dream.

 _Something went wrong_ , says a feeling at the pit of his stomach, and a cold heavy cloak of disappointment falls over him. He was never spiritual, as a bird or as a man: after death, he expected nothing but oblivion and peace.

Instead, it’s noise and movement and a dull throbbing behind his browbone―and a disembodied voice, high and shrill like a seagull in the spring. He lets out a pained groan as the voice repeats its chirping call, and the chirp is a _word_ ―it’s his name. Dead birds don’t open their eyes, but his are open, facing the cloudy slate of the evening sky, dark streaks of fluttering leaves overhead, a blurry human shape. He blinks, blind and lost as though he were freshly hatched.

“Oh, Wormwood, finally!” The voice follows, sounding wet with relief as he attempts to focus. It’s like moving in mud. “It… it is you, right?”

It sounds like…

“S-sofia…?” he croaks.

“Who else?! What happened?”

What is Sofia doing in his afterlife? What does she mean, who else should it…? He tries to speak, ask her to give him a moment, dammit, but he doesn’t know how to work his throat all over again.  _Am I… alive?_  he wonders, because he has asked himself if he were dreaming too many a time lately.  _But it can’t be… if I’m alive it would mean…._ He tries to recollect what happened in the place they visited, the  _Threshold_ ―he remembers choosing to give up something that he thought most precious, for something that he valued even more―

Two huge hands wrap around the whole of him, lifting him towards the vague expanse of a face. He flinches in pain, biting blindly at the touch. The girl lets out a yelp, and lets him fall a short distance until he lands into some cloth below.

“ _Ow_ ―why did you do that?” Sofia cries out, between tearful and worried.

At last, his dried eyes start working again and he can put her into focus. Sofia is _huge_ , towering. Possibly, even more than what she used to be compared to his raven form… he wonders if they switched sizes while he was down. And what does  _she_  have to be crying about?

“Wormwood,  _please_!” Sofia implores. Her hands come near again, and he can see the small― _too small_ ―cut of his beak on her finger, and a few loose feathers come off when he flutters clumsily away from her. “Talk to me!”

 _Feathers_.

“I… I’m a…” he croaks slowly, the world halting at the realisation. He’s a _bird_ again… but not a raven. “What… happened…?”

Words feel alien in his little beak, in the small pointed tongue it didn’t take long to grow unused to. He puts a wing to his face, trying to rub his eyes like humans do, and only succeeds in ruffling his feathers even more.

“You tell _me_ , Wormwood!” Sofia says, starting to sound a bit frayed on top of everything else. “You transformed so suddenly―I thought you had just disappeared!”

She lifts a fold of black cloth in her hand: his cloak. Looking at it… it seems impossible that he has worn it on his body. He looks down at the unfamiliar shape of his little wings.

“I’m a… a _dwarf jay_ , or something…” he murmurs, finally focusing enough to recognise the pointy outline and subtle markings of his feathers. He barely cares if his voice is shaking. “A black dwarf jay. It’s not even―what… what in the world happened to me…?”

Sofia splays her hands, brows furrowed in concern. In one hand, she still clutches her white handkerchief.

“I don’t know, I only saw this bright green glow, and then the grass grew in a magic circle, see? And Mr. Cedric is still―” Sofia halts, glancing down, “still asleep.”

“Wait, what?” Wormwood balks, finally shaken from his confusion. “It… it didn’t work? After all this, it didn’t even _work_?!”

The Princess gives him a distressed shrug. He follows her gaze, and realizes the cloth he landed on is the sorcerer’s stomach. He had forgotten how huge Cedric used to be compared to himself, all the time… and even more now. Now he could fit whole in the palm of Cedric’s hand.

If only he were awake to do it. Now he’s nothing but tatters of robe, bruise-coloured eyelids, pale clammy skin. There is Wormwood’s abandoned black cloak cushioning his head, probably courtesy of the Princess, who had been kneeling next to him.

Wormwood cannot move for a moment, can barely breathe, too afraid to check for a pulse. To think they might have been tricked, to think his last resort didn’t work, and he gave up… _everything,_ to gain nothing at all.

“Don’t worry… he should be okay, just still asleep,” Sofia says.

“ _Don’t worry_? How would I not worry? How do  _you_  know he’s alright?” Wormwood snaps, way harsher than intended. He looks about for something to direct his frustration at, eyes focusing on the grass around them. “You―you stepped into the circle, didn’t you?!”

She wasn’t  _there_ , how could she know? But he needn’t move or question further: under the tiny claws of his feet, as soon as he calms down, he can feel the weak rise and fall of Cedric’s breathing. It isn’t strong, it isn’t full of life. But it’s steady. Steady.

“I had to… you were both gone, Mr. Cedric started… muttering, and flailing and…” Sofia keens, gesturing impotently, arms open. “I tried to help him… and I saw his wounds disappear. My handkerchief dried, like magic.”

The bloodstains have disappeared from the white silk, and from Sofia’s scratched arms. Only the bloody prints of Wormwood’s human hands―so huge―remain on her dress.

Wormwood hops higher on the sorcerer’s chest, and laboriously tugs down the ripped neck of his shirt.

“Even this one is gone,” he confirms, though Sofia can see for herself. Her brow doesn’t smoothen, and her voice remains tinged with anguish.

She asks, “Did you do this, then? Is that why you aren’t a human anymore?”

“Yes, but…” He doesn’t know how to explain. This isn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want to deal with even _more_ consequences. He thought he would make his final act, and be on his way, be free of his mistakes, be at peace. He swallows emptily, powerless against the dread that washes over him.

Winifred’s Imago said he is something else now, a Familiar. He looks around, as though the destroyed clearing could bring him answers. No trace of the Well, crushed under the fallen chestnut. Has his human form vanished along with the Well’s magic? Has  _any_  of what they’ve been through yielded any results? Cedric isn’t even awake! Maybe Winifred made a mistake in her planning. Maybe Cedric stopped him before the spell could be completed. Maybe Sofia stepping on the grass made it go wrong.

From the depleted source of his emotions, something comes roaring up. It is a faceless, blurred anger that he doesn’t know where to place. On Cedric? On their mothers? On himself? Whose fault is this?! He starts breathing hard, and the sound of steps in the grass makes him skitter on his light feet.

“Someone is coming,” he says, alarmed. He recoils when he recognises the cadence of their steps. It’s two people, approaching at a brisk, military pace. “It’s the guards!”

“Yes, I… I know,” Sofia says, taking a deep breath, wringing her hands a little. “I was worried so… I went and called the guards on patrol on the bridge. It’s best if they don’t see you, I think… and you can’t be much help like this, anyway.”

“Why, you little―” He doesn’t even know what comes spewing out his mouth, but the Princess leans away and averts her eyes in discomfort. And annoyance.

“Wormwood, I had to,” she says, exhaling breath out her white nostrils. “Will you calm down a momen―”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”

“Listen, you wouldn’t wake up, and Mr. Cedric sounded like he was  _in pain_ … I’m not big enough to carry either of you.” Sofia gestures upwards, to the sky churning and rumbling in preparation for another storm, and around to the creepy ruined clearing where the wind whispers in the destroyed Well’s high voice. “And I… don’t like it here, and wanted all of us to leave. And if they saw you they’d―”

“Are you out of your  _mind_?” Wormwood interjects, gesturing violently at her dress with both wings, feeling the shapeless anger finally focus in on something, on someone. “You look like someone made mincemeat out of you! My human clothes are still here! Are you trying to _frame_ Cedric?”

“Wha―?” Sofia balks, taken aback, eyes widening with horror. “Wormwood, what are you saying? They would _never_ think ill of Mr. Cedric like that!”

The raven wants to _scream_. Has she forgotten how ruthless and devoted the guards are? Wasn’t she _right_ _there_ , the time with the little griffin? He fumes, puffing up with wordless fractiousness for a moment.

“Wormwood, I’m  _sorry_ ,” Sofia says. “I was afraid it was my fault for suggesting you to… I just wanted to help my friends, I didn’t know what else―”

“Friends? You think we are  _friends_ , child?” he sneers. “For all we know, this is all your fault! You come here, you ruin everything stepping into the magic circle, and then call the guards on us? First the Cove, now _this_ , and you call yourself our _friend_?”

“What!” The shocked offence on Sofia’s face resembles Roland in the most hateful way. She flushes red, snapping, “You _bodily_ _threw me into a bramble_! I―wait a minute.”

A pause. Her eyes narrow. Wormwood rethinks of what he said, and prays all there is that he hasn’t said what he remembers saying.

Slowly, defensively, Sofia inquires, “What has the _Cove_ to do with anything…?”

In his mind’s eye, Wormwood sees the two roads splitting at a fork before him. One is new, barely explored, a thin, thankless path within thorns and bushes, that he can hardly see through the fog of his anger. And the other is a well-trodden road, plain and open, and he has walked it all his life, and every event seems to push him to take it. The choice is made without a second thought.

“It has to do with _everything_ ,” he whispers in a rush, aware that the approaching guards can’t hear him in this form. He pictures himself in his human form― strong and imposing and frightening―instead of this miserable miniature corvid nonsense. “Have you already forgotten, you dim child, how you escaped within an inch of your life from that Sea Monster?”

“The… the Sea Monster.” Sofia echoes, a little hollowly.

Of course she remembers. That very night, she had come running up the tower of the Floating Palace to spin the whole tale to them, assuming they had just stayed there the entire day.

Cedric had listened to her grand adventure sitting on his stool like a log―as that water-blast had bruised his ribs a bit even through his Protection Charm. Cedric’s face was frozen in a very awkward, guilty smile, his robe still stiff with dried saltwater and the wooden workshop steamy with the potion he used to get rid of that horrid tail. Upon her inquiry, he dismissed the greenish shade of his face as residual seasickness. She brought him mint tea from the galley, for his nausea. He got teary-eyed.

“But… it can’t be,” Sofia says, and even against her will the wheels in her mind are turning, recollecting, putting two and two together. A purple monster with magic abilities. A black, green-eyed squid.

Wormwood smiles, as much as his beak allows him to. He has done it, and now he must run with it. He gives her his hunter’s smile, the one that used to terrify prey in his days of youth.

“Oh yes, it can,” he says softly. “The two of us were supposed to be there on the Floating Palace with you, but did anyone see us? Not for meals, not for a swim, not even when everyone was in danger. Where do you think we were, Princess?”

Sofia doesn’t answer, staring down at nothing. He hops closer to her, and she rises to her feet and takes a step back, shaking her head no the same way Cedric does. She is a child made of the habits of adults, done and undone by the will of her Amulet, a miserable thing that deserves no pity.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” he hisses. “You were so focused on your silly little key, that you saw _nothing_. You blind snakeling, you didn’t recognise the wand, nor the books, not even the voice!”

“No―” Sofia mutters, the cruel shadow of understanding darkening her wide eyes.

She can only gasp for air for a moment, like a pink-mouthed trout out of water, glancing from him to Cedric. Then, she steels herself, her voice low to hide from the guards now very near.

“You’re lying. The Sea Monster wanted Oona’s Enchanted Comb. Why would Mr. Cedric want a comb?”

“For its power, you dimwit. All sorcerers are on a lifelong quest for power, and he is no different.”

“Not at the expense of someone else!” Sofia says, in a whisper that would have been a shout had they been alone. Her hand hovers on Cedric’s supine form as if to protect him from the slander. “Mr. Cedric is a good person, and he’s my friend! He would never―”

“Princess Sofia!” two voices call in unison, interrupting her.

The guards can’t see the three of them yet, concealed by the darkness and the grass as they are. Sofia squirms like she wants to answer them, but Wormwood inches closer to her, looming over her as though he could see his shadow spreading over her. She has chills on her bare, scratched arms.

Almost in her ear, he coos, “Don’t presume to know what he would or wouldn’t do. You don’t know anything at all. In the quest for power, it’s all means to an end. The path is ruthless; victory or death, and nothing else. Remember that.”

To prove it, he lunges and makes to take the Family Wand from the grass next to her. Her hand moves away instinctively, remembering the nip of his little beak. He cannot carry the wand in this cursed form… but it should be enough to prove his point. The child’s round face hardens slightly, her mouth thinning to reproach until its rosy colour pales to white.

“Clover was _right_ ,” she says, her voice brittle and her mouth quivering. “I should have ditched you both.”

“Isn’t he always right?” Wormwood echoes sarcastically. Good, he thinks. She should regret helping him, helping them. He hopes she regrets every step she took for their sake. If she regrets it, she won’t make that mistake again. It will be all a good life lesson.

Sofia shakes her head. “Maybe  _you_  don’t know anything, Wormwood.”

He can find nothing better in himself than a derisive huff. Sofia shakes her head, and climbs to her feet to catch the guards’ attention.

“Over here!” she calls, sounding louder and angrier than she probably intended.

The guards spot her, and rush to her, their eyes going wide. “Princess! What happened here? Are you alright?”

Wormwood hates to follow her advice, abandon Cedric there, but she’s right. If he’s stuck again in bird form… this is now between the humans. He watches the redheaded guard kneel by Cedric, a shock of bitterness coursing through him. Hidden in the shadow, he spreads his wings for the first time in what feels like a decade, and kicks off the ground to take flight. He barely has time to grab onto the lowest branch before his wings give out, aching and too weak to fly.

“Hi Frederick… it was just some magic… uh―incident,” Sofia stutters, lie not quite ready this time.  _Getting sloppy there, Snakelet,_  Wormwood thinks nastily.

“Princess Sofia, where are your shoes― _is that blood?_ ” the taller guard asks, staring at her and her stained dress in open disbelief. Then, Wormwood clearly sees his posture change, stiffening as he glances to the sorcerer laid out on the grass, hand tightening on his spear. “Have… have you been _attacked_?”

 _There we go_ , Wormwood thinks angrily. _She_ is _always in the damn way_.

And then Sofia does something he didn’t expect: she hesitates to deny it. She even glances up towards Wormwood for a few seconds, taking too long to answer. Wormwood feels the seconds trickle away like sand in an hourglass.

 _What is she doing?_  He wonders, an imaginary tingle of sweat on his back.

“No, I haven’t,” she finally says, so late, so unconvincing. She adds unhelpfully, gesturing to the stains on her dress, “This is not mine.”

Wormwood realises his mistake, and the crawling feeling goes to full-body shiver.  _Is she trying to get him executed?_  Cursing through his clenched jaw, Wormwood abandons the scene, heading over to the tower. It is a slow and stuttering flight, and it makes him want to scream, his left wing stinging.

As much as it pains him, his strength is depleted, and this is now between the humans.

* * *

He has been asleep for days, weeks, years. Centuries, maybe. He barely remembers ever being awake. That’s the impression, from how painstakingly slow coming awake is.

Each of his senses is taking its sweet time. He can hear voices, but they are distant, like faded memories. He is parched, and his head throbs like he has spent three days reading by candlelight. His whole mouth tastes of metal.

“Can you manage, Carl?” a doubtful, faraway voice asks.

“Yeah, no problem,” a mildly closer voice answers. “Man weights like a wet kitten.”

When his sense of touch awakens, he becomes aware of the cold air, of drafts all over his body. Of arms keeping him suspended, like a vase hanging off the ground, the sway of measured steps. He’s being carried.

 _It didn’t work_ , he thinks, a wave of relief surging in him.  _Wormwood is still here_.

And yet… something is different. He continues the slow process of coming awake. He isn’t afraid. If Wormwood is carrying him, he’s safe. Then, he feels the arms are thinner, their hold is unsure. _Wrong_. His entire body stiffens.

“Fred, he’s… he’s not okay,” the closer voice speaks again, clearer this time. “I think he has a fever, or something… has been off the whole week, you’ve seen it, at the riverside! We shouldn’t be so quick to jud―”

“I’m going to tell the King what I saw, nothing more,” the more distant voice says. A bit darker, it adds, “And nothing less.”

And there is a gap, a space, words above him that want to come out but remain unsaid. They press unresolved above Cedric’s ear, like untold whispers. He’s finally able to open his eyes, and his sight slowly puts into focus a boy’s face peeking from under a guard’s uniform hat. He lets out a sharp inhale, bringing the young man to a halt.

“Uh, can you walk?” the guard asks immediately, with a tone that tries but fails to be cold and impersonal.

He finds it in himself to nod, immensely disoriented, and the boy drops him like a hot potato, to his feet that are still half asleep. He struggles for balance for a moment, dizzy.

He tries to straighten out what’s left of his clothes―barely enough not to make an indecent display out of him… but unsightly nevertheless. He is covered in grass stains from head to toe, to the point that one wouldn’t be able to tell the original colour of his clothing. What had happened in the clearing? He looks around, wondering where―

“Sofia?!” he gasps, doing a double-take. Tripping all over his words, he asks, “Princess, w-w-what are _you_ doing out here?”

Sofia doesn’t answer. She is walking ahead like she hasn’t heard anything, oddly silent, her gaze distant and serious. They’re almost at the castle yard, he realises. The other guard has run ahead, to the front steps.

He racks his brain for answers. What is the last thing he recalls? Going with Wormwood to confront the Well and get back his Family Wand… and Wormwood being more afraid than he’s ever seen him―then a terrible revelation, and being hit, the vines swallowing him. All that blood…

He brings a hand to his chest, stopping in his tracks. The guard bumps into him and urges him forward, but he barely hears him. On his chest, there is nothing. No hole in his flesh, no vest and shirt stained a red so deep it seemed black. Only… his skin, new and raw like a drained blister. The whole of his upper body, from chest to his left forearm, stings with pain, like he shouldered nettles out of the way with his bare arm. He can’t have been run through―it must have been some sort of illusion.

The pain sure felt real, he thinks with a shudder. And then there was that silly vision, with his mother and Wormwood and the blood and Familiar Magic… _What nonsense_ , he thinks. And yet, Sofia is really there, just like Wormwood told him in the vision. What has she seen? Has she really _seen_ ―

“Sofia!” he calls again, his voice brusquer than he’d meant. He remembers a pact, the strange ritual that tasted of ancient and mystery and witchcraft―Wormwood deciding he’ll save him even if it cost him his life. And the raven, he realizes, is nowhere to be seen. “Sofia―tell me what happened!”

Sofia halts with a small stomp, just at the edge of the yard. She whips around to face him, and her jaw is clenched and her lips are thinned to a white line. She is shaking from head to toe in her stained dress _. Oh dear_ , he thinks, feeling the cold spread from his middle to the tip of his numbed toes.  _Her dress… why is she the one covered in―_

He cannot help but start to put together the pieces of a terrible picture, a picture he hoped to never have to put together in his life. He, Cedric, has somehow survived the battle. The Princess looks like she has been through some terrible ordeals. Wormwood isn’t there. 

 _Oh no_ , he thinks, feeling chills of panic turn all his nerves to ice, stiffening his steps to a tremble,  _oh no._ He waits, breath bated, for the Princess to speak. Was the vision real? All of it? Is Wormwood―

To his surprise, Sofia doesn’t say a word to him. The look in her eyes, instead, tells him she isn’t shocked, or even afraid. She is  _angry_. She turns back around with a small grunt, as though she couldn’t stand to look at him a moment longer, and crosses the yard at an odd, limping run.

Even more confused, he quickens his pace after her, holding his ripped breeches up, the slow response from his feet making him stumble a couple of times. The young guard that was carrying him, walking close behind, has to catch him by the arm before he falls over. Both times, Cedric rips away from him in mixed pain and indignation.

As they all reach the front stairs of the castle, and the fat raindrops start to wet the marble in dark splotches, he sees that Sofia halted there at the top of the staircase. Her shoulders are quivering.

The King himself is standing at the door, ear tilted to the taller guard who is talking to him in a hurried hush. Roland’s expression is… grave, to say the least. Cedric becomes acutely aware of the clothes near-falling off his body.

“Dad?” Sofia says hesitantly, her voice tight with pain, rubbing her leg as Cedric and the other guard climb the stairs behind her.

“It is very late, Sofia,” Roland says, a sharp glint in his eye. “We didn’t know where you were at all in the past hour, and we were very worried. Can you give me an explanation?”

Sofia sinks visibly. “I… not really. I’m sorry,” she murmurs, crestfallen. She takes a step forward and winces.

“Are you _limping_?” The King kneels in front of her, immediately worried, and lifts one of her scratched arms. “Sofia, where do these come from?”

“It’s nothing, I-I fell into a bush in the Gardens,” she tries, but she can’t hold back anymore, and with her voice comes out a hiccup. The King takes her by the shoulders, gently and firmly.

“Don’t cry, sweetie,” he says. Then he sets his face, throwing Cedric a glare over her head that freezes him in place, like he’s supposed to have anything to do with her distress. “Listen, go inside now. I’ll come help you with those in just a moment, and then it’s almost time to get ready for the guests. Can you do that for me, Sofia?”

“Y-yes, of course, but,” Sofia stammers, her voice clipped to hold back the tears. They roll down her round cheeks all the same. “I didn’t mean to be late, I was―”

“It’s alright. Please, go now.” The Princess shuts up instantly, taken aback by the hard note in her father’s voice, the kingly authority he isn’t fond of using within his family.

Cedric looks away. There is something intolerable to seeing an adult shut her up like that. Sofia, so headstrong and resolute, addressed with that kiddie-talk. _How dare you,_ he wants to snap, _she's upset, not an idiot._ Has he ever seen her this upset before? His wandering gaze lands on the other guard.

Finally noticing what the man is holding, he feels the need to grab onto something. It’s a robe. A wide, black rib velvet robe, with jagged hems and bright green trimmings. Cedric’s head gives a spin so powerful he almost stumbles backwards on the stairs. He barely feels the touch of the guard’s hand, keeping him upright.

Wormwood’s robe.

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Sofia make to rush to the castle door, taking the knowledge of what happened with her.

“W-wait!” he calls after her in a panicked squeak, unaware of how the King and both guards tense visibly at the sound of his voice. In the light of her reaction, and the robe left behind, Wormwood’s absence takes a connotation so certain and frightening Cedric feels fear twist his insides. Sofia halts, but doesn’t turn, so he lunges and catches her wrist. “Sofia, wait―where is  _he_? W―”

But the Princess flinches away from him, cradling her arm as if he had hit her.

“He’s  _gone_!” she snaps, stomping her limping foot and wincing again, her eyes sharp and glaring and full of tears.

“Sofia…?” _Gone._ The word echoes in his head a thousand times. _Gone. Gone. Gone._

“Stay away!” Sofia shouts at him as he makes to take another step towards her, a hiss in her voice like a cornered weasel.

“ _Cedric_ ,” Roland says, tearing his attention from the Princess’ odd behaviour. When he lifts his eyes and meets the King’s, his heart gives a frightened stutter. He has seen Roland so angry only once before. Between his teeth, the King hisses, “I advise you to  _back off_.”

 _What in the world is going on?_  Cedric wants to ask, but his only witness is acting like he has killed a puppy before her staring eyes or something _. I just want to know where my damn raven is!_

Urged once again, Sofia sets her jaw and rushes inside, without a glance back. The guards remain. In the dark atmosphere of the castle entrance, the suspicion becomes certainty. The vision was real. Wormwood has really given his life. He really is… _gone_.

Cedric glances from guards to liege, sensitivity slowly returning to his chilled limbs, slowly aware of the dull pains going through the whole of him, like so many arrows. His left arm hurts and itches, as if needles were piercing it to the bone. If Roland is about to ask him what happened at the Well's clearing, he'll have a blast scraping up an answer. The whole of him feels emptied out, spent.

“I'd like to know what you're up to,” Roland hisses, as soon as Sofia is out of earshot, his voice harsh and direct. Cedric can see a glimpse of the fiery youth he used to be, once upon a time, in a different life. “How come Sofia comes home upset every time she goes somewhere with you? And telling strange stories? I will not stand for her getting hurt, is that clear?”

“But… it's only scratches, hardly anything to worry about,” Cedric replies, shrugging a little, disoriented. _Drat_ , he thinks when he sees Roland's face _. Wrong move_. A sharp pain courses through his arm and shoulder, and he has to clear his throat to keep his voice steady. “Maybe a bit of a scare, that's all.”

“ _That's all,_ ” the King echoes, eyes narrowing. His voice is still down to a mutter, the kind of mutter that is a barely restrained shout. “I know in _which_ part of the Gardens you were found. How dare you get Sofia into―” he halts, inhales, exhales. Cedric is half-surprised smoke doesn’t come out his nostrils. “She already had a bad run with that cursed thing, not so long ago.”

“Me? I haven't _brought_ her anywhere, I didn't even know―”

“Frederick,” Roland says sharply to the taller guard, in a tone fit for a murder trial, his stony gaze set on the sorcerer. “You said there were signs of a magic battle on the premises, correct?”

"Indeed, sire, from what I could tell," Frederick says, snapping to salute. "Ashes, sire, and scorch-marks in the soil―a patch of grass in the form of some magic symbol. The hedges were uprooted, and a tree had been felled. It looked pretty brutal, honestly."

Roland's frown darkens. The hardness of his eyes takes Cedric back a decade, to the horrible night that sealed the fate of their friendship. He has to make an effort not to put a hand up to protect his neck.

"Was the sorcerer's wand out?" Roland asks, like he's pronouncing a death sentence.

"Show his Majesty, Carl," Frederick urges. Cedric senses a hesitation in the boy behind him, and becomes sharply aware that he is, once again, wandless.

"I-I have it here, sire," Carl says, in a reluctant tone like he would prefer not to get involved, holding up the purple wand. "Picked it up from the ground.”

“This is _absurd_ ," Cedric says, for what he thinks must be the tenth time in the past week, with a half-laugh of incredulity. "That's just my everyday wand, I have been carrying it for―"

“Silence,” the King hisses.

“Yet the Princess denies she's been attacked―”

" _Attacked?!_ " Cedric all but yells, wide eyes darting between the three men in growing disbelief. "What in the world is going on? You think I would ever―"

But he cannot finish, strangled by his own disingenuity. Yes, he has done it. Not this time, but he has definitely done it. _I was under a spell_ , he tells himself, and even his inner voice sounds unconvinced.

"Silence! I am not in the mood, Cedric," the King barks. Lower, he adds, "Of course she would deny it, and cover for your―ineptitude. Sofia thinks the best of everyone, even those that don't deserve it. She must be the only person in this castle that still thinks―"

He halts, breathing in to stop himself from shouting. Yet, his unspoken words cut the air like he spat them in his face. _That still thinks you deserve anything of what you have_. All retorts fold onto themselves in Cedric's sinking gut, and he says nothing.

“Let’s not make a scene, here. If you think there is something unresolved that we should talk about, you come to  _me_ ,” the King says, with the same coldness Sofia dressed her tone with, one blow after the other. “You do  _not_  take it out on my nine year old daughter. That is low, even for you.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Cedric hisses back, stung and at the end of his patience, “I have not―”

Roland turns from him before he can finish, and addresses the guards, “Was anyone else there? Corax?”

The sorcerer gasps at the name. “Just _listen_ to me, I―”

“We haven’t seen him, sire. Only this robe.”

“So we have a missing sorcerer, too. Perfect, just what we needed tonight,” Roland mutters. “At least he would have had good insight into this m―”

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” Cedric calls in a pleading tone, desperate to get a word in. _Every time I go to that Well I lose something_ , he thinks distantly. “Why would you trust the word of a _stranger_ over mine?! I went to the Queensgrave to oblige my duty, the Well―”

“ _Shut up!_ ” Roland finally shouts, silencing everyone, even the crickets out in the lawn. “That _thing_ shouldn’t even be on castle grounds!"

“Well, I wasn’t the one to put it there, was I?” He knows he's overstepping all lines of propriety, but he cannot stop himself. When Roland doesn't shut him up again, he hesitantly continues, "Even my father was only able to put a lock on it, if  _Your Majesty_  recalls!"

“At least your father didn't bring children around it on purpose!” Roland snaps, lunging so close it makes Cedric flinch, heart beating like it wants to escape. The King’s forceful shout reeks of lost restraint, of that sickroom from a decade ago, of hands at his throat ready to break. “This is the last straw. You _knew_ that place was dangerous, yet you let Sofia around it! For Tilly and I, Goodwyn was a  _role model_ , a figure of  _wisdom_ and _safety_. To my children, you are a  _hazard_.”

Cedric feels like he's hanging from a very thin thread, so thin he might as well just snap it himself. His strength and patience have been worn thin, worried sick about Wormwood’s fate and Sofia's odd behaviour, he's there but not really there. He’s somewhere else, watching Roland impose on his space like he owns it―the way he owns the castle, the land, the power of life and death.

It’s unfair. It’s too much. He’s had enough. Tinged with righteousness rather than fear, the anger mounting inside of him has an unfamiliar, white-hot quality, a pulse instead of a paralysis. The awed dread Roland used to inspire in him has muted to disgust, to _pity_ , even. The stiffness in his limbs melting away, he ignores all aches and straightens up to his full height, so that he and the King are almost eye to eye, barely a few inches apart.

“Oh, he kept the two of you safe alright,” Cedric hisses, lightheaded with his own boldness, his voice low and sharp. Roland's nostrils flare at the provocation, the white of his eyes terrible in his stony face. “I recall _someone_ knowing a thing or two about forcing others to cover for them.”

The guards inhale sharply. He is talking back to the _King_ , and the latter’s fury radiates on the staircase, almost palpable, darts through his narrowed eyes.

“I’m warning you,” Roland grits out, his breathing audible. His arms shake, stiff at his sides, hands clenched into fists.

“And yet, somehow _everything_ is my fault, isn’t it? What incredible, superhuman power I have, that I am responsible for _everything_ that goes wrong! Things I had no control over, things I advised against, things I didn’t even know were happening!” He watches Roland’s pupils contract in his light eyes, watches the haughty jut of jaw he always hated in him, ever since they were boys. “Always there to take the fall for you, like some― _whip boy_ to run around and put the blame on! And you passed the habit to everyone in this _bloody_ castle!”

With dangerous, stormlike calm, Roland murmurs, “I’m warning you… not another word.”

“But _why_?!” he shouts, his arms wide, his voice sharp with venom, not a crack in it for once, not a tremble. “Why should I be forbidden to speak? You made _a fool’s wish_ , and we now have a Queensgrave, and _somehow_ it’s still my _damn_ fault! So what―”

 “Why, you _impudent_ ―”

“―what are you so _afraid of_ ―?”

Roland lunges like a snapping dog, and this time the guards―younger, more respectful―don’t move a step to hold him back. His hand flies up and he strikes Cedric open-handed across the face, with enough force to send him stumbling on the steps.

“ _How dare you_ ,” the King shouts, tall and towering and furious, just like Wormwood that first night, when he was so unlike himself.

But, unless Cedric’s sole presence is enough to pull the beast out of every man, no one has altered Roland’s form. _This is it_ , says the little voice that sounds so much like his own. _There was never anything other than this, and never will._

“Everyone has a breaking point,” he says hollowly, slurring a little through the ringing in his ears. The sting seems to cover a good half of his head, from his left eye back to his ear, even his neck hurts from the whiplash. Dumbfounded, he runs a hand on the corner of his mouth, where the impact has split his lip against his teeth, tempted to spit blood at the King’s feet, match him at the level of bestiality he’s just shown. He doesn’t.

“Contrary to what you seem to believe, you _are_ replaceable.” Roland straightens up, putting himself under restraint again, tugging down into place the hems of his jacket and vest, climbing back into his shackles of humanity. “And you _will_ be replaced if I hear _one more word_ about this matter. Guards!”

The two, despite the barely concealed shock at what they witnessed, readily step forward. Cedric attempts to coordinate his limbs to climb back to his feet, but they refuse to collaborate.

“To the dungeon.” A pause, to let the words that haven’t been uttered in decades breathe in the silence. Cedric distinctly feels his heart fall with a dull thud. “Until I get to the bottom of what happened here.”

Reality shudders, knocked back into motion like a stuck gear. The reality where Wormwood is dead, Sofia hates him, and talking back to the King has dreadful consequences. They come so soon, with the guards’ hands that clasp over his arms―he grunts in pain―and haul him up to his feet.

The younger guard―Carl―loosens his grip, glancing at his arm like it’s a scalding ladle.

“M-my liege,” he says shakily, clearing his throat three times in the process, “my liege, if… if I may, the man is burning up and… uh, injured, I think, and in no condition to―”

“My _daughter_ is injured!” the King roars, and Carl presses his lips together like he’s never going to open his mouth again. “And all I know is that _he_ did it!”

King Roland turns to enter the castle, but on the threshold he whips back around, and points to the purple wand held in the crook of Carl’s elbow.

“And snap that _damn_ thing,” he commands.

Cedric has nothing left in him to scrape up a protest. The crunch of breaking wood is loud in his ears, and he flinches away from the noise as though it caused him physical pain. His school wand, the one he has managed to keep whole all his life. His last working wand.

“I’m sorry… I tried,” Carl murmurs, trying to figure out how to put less pressure on his left arm. Cedric lets him, defeated. “We don’t even really know what happened, but we have to―”

“Don’t talk to him, Carl,” Frederick says. “He’s a prisoner.”

“But, come on, this is our sorcerer! We were still in boy shorts and he was already here, doing his thing,” Carl protests, somehow apologetic. _Already here, failing_ , Cedric rewrites in his mind. Frederick just grunts.

During the slow walk into the castle foyer, and down the long winding staircase, the two guards―mostly Carl―run a series of wild hypotheses. They talk about him like he’s not dangling between them like a limp rag. The sting escalates to a deep burn in Cedric's hit eye, and he feels it start to swell shut.

“And also... have you _ever_ seen King Roland get like this?” Carl asks after a pause, voice lower, smaller. The iron door of the dungeons comes nearer and nearer.

“No. I… have never seen anything like it,” the other admits, his voice losing that stiff edge to give way to a timid, almost childlike uncertainty. _Lucky lad_ , Cedric thinks.

“Wouldn’t think him the type to…” a glance, that Cedric feels on his skin like a layer of slime, viscous. “To just _snap_ like that, honestly.”

He finally just tunes them out, concentrating on holding back the tears that prickle at the bridge of his nose. They have been there for a while now, ready to burst out of him every time he thinks of what might have been of Wormwood.

He yields to the hands that drag him away, into the guts of the earth once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Royal Guard Carl, the unsung hero of this story.


	20. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a moment to grieve.

 

Sofia throws open the double door of her room, barrels across the threshold, and lets it slam behind her.

The bang echoes through the walls, sharp and loud and oddly metallic. The key falls out the keyhole, and the unreachable dust on the top of the sliders comes down in a cloud on her head. Sofia coughs, stepping away.

She never slams her door: when the room became hers, Baileywick was kind enough to answer all of her questions. _How does it just slide shut by itself?_ she asked, among many other things. Was it sorcery or engineering? _Pure engineering_ , he answered, patient and, she could tell, a little proud. From that moment on, she had decided to cherish the delicate architecture of little springs and oiled gears that keep it working, the small wonder of technology behind her pink walls.

Right now, she doesn’t care about the door. All her care has drained away, pushed up and over by another feeling, by the frightening, unfamiliar white-hot anger bubbling up from beneath. Sofia lets the door slam and the key and dust fall to the floor and the air moves enough to sway the calling rope―and for a moment she thinks with hopeful dread it will be enough to ring it.

It isn’t. She sighs out in the silence, but a garbled rasp of air comes out of her chest instead. Her breathing won’t go back to normal, no matter how much she tries to slow it down―to breathe from her tummy and control it, like Sir Gillium says, _when the horses can feel your fear, they get restless and unruly_. The burning feeling presses in her throat, behind her clenched teeth, bypassing the tears that sting in her eyes—sorrow hangs heavy over her like the air of a rainy day, but her body trembles with heated blood, her guts are _boiling_. Her body, too, has gotten restless and unruly, and her breathing comes so fast she is getting lightheaded, her racing thoughts fogging over. She cannot quantify this feeling, she only knows it’s bigger than her body’s capacity, and it cannot contain it anymore—she is going to _explode_.

She stumbles to her bed and sinks her teeth and fingers into a pillow and lets go of the scream she had been holding in since―since when? _Since Wormwood opened his stupid mouth!_ She thinks, scream curdling into a prolonged whimper. Since he opened his mouth, and told her things she never wanted to know.

Pillow still to her face, she falls back behind her tall bed, legs in a tangle and butt to the floor like a toddler, and screams until the muscles in her neck and face start to cramp, until her lungs won’t take air in anymore. When the pillow falls from her slack hands, it has the print of her face on it: dirt from outside, teary eyes and wet nose and mouth, red smudges from her scratched arms. She leans her head back, letting it thud against the wall behind her, and sighs.

Sofia looks up, vision blurry, to the tall canopy of her bed streaked in lamplight; the room is too big, her senses whimper, there is nowhere to hide. _Just like the day I arrived_ , she thinks. Except that time she could run straight into her mother’s arms, and tell her what was wrong. Now, the only people she could run to for her troubles are… the very ones that caused them.

_I trusted you!_ she wants to scream in Mr. Cedric’s face. _I thought you were my friend! I thought you were good!_ A new wave of tears bubbles up inside her, and this time it’s not anger that pushes them out.

_What is this?_ she wonders, as though floating above her own feelings, through the dull, throbbing pain in her sternum, like her lungs were full of straw and terrycloth. She puts a hand to her chest, still moving a bit faster than usual, her breathing still a bit rasped. It hurts more than grown-ups not believing her truth, more than them not listening. More than worrying about a test, more than the King’s voice when it gets stern. It hurts different―it hurts like an absence, like something she expected to be there and then just _wasn’t_ , a missing step in a ladder that makes you trip and knock your first baby tooth loose. _It hurts like Father’s Day._

Her mind isn’t racing anymore. Now, it is the stale water cut flowers die in, murky and full of deceit. She tries to remember what happened at the clearing, the battle and the aftermath―and there is little more than the white fog and the memory of desperate shouting. The things Wormwood told her, instead, arise from the chaos as stark and painful as cattle brands, still fuming.

_Maybe it wasn’t even true_ , she tries. _Maybe Wormwood lied just to upset me_. She could tell the raven was scared, and hurt, and angry―and when it’s like that he has shown time and time again that that’s the way he gets. _Please, please let him be lying_ , she begs to no one. She feels every Princess that has ever come to her aid look down at her with pity. She clutches her Amulet, hopeful, but no glow comes to rescue her.

_Not even the Amulet wants to help me_ , she thinks, and the huge room seems to cave in on her. _Because there is nothing to explain, here_ , says a voice inside her. Her own, maybe, but firm and certain. Cold. _There is nothing you can fix._

Finally, her ragged breathing placates, and her lungs can take air all the way in again. A special kind of tiredness is pulling at her―like post-derby exhaustion with none of the joy―but she finds it in herself to climb to her feet. Her bad leg pulses with strain, her arms itch, the soiled dress feels gross on her skin. _I have to change,_ she remembers, _for the guests. For the Feast._

The dress she is supposed to wear to the celebration is still spread on her bed, where she and Clover have left it. She has to change out of the bloodstains Wormwood’s injured hands left on her, get ready, and smile for the guests like nothing happened. _Don’t cry, sweetie_ , Dad said, like he always says to them when they cry.

She intensely hopes Dad didn’t really mean it when he said he would come and help her. She is really afraid she would say something she shouldn’t say right now. _Well, why should I keep their secrets, after all? They’re not my friends._

Mechanically, she strips off the pillowcase, and takes it with her to the washroom. She undoes the clasp of her dress, and steps out of it as it pools at her feet, a soiled lilac puddle. Sofia looks down at the small tent in the fabric on the floor, puzzled for a moment.

_Right, the Wand_. _I took it with me._ The black Family Wand, made by the Well from the one Wormwood stole, when Mr. Cedric came to her with a torn sleeve and anguished eyes, when all of this started.

_It scratched me_ , she notices, examining a red welt in her side. Her gown didn’t have a pocket deep enough for a wand, so she tucked it under her petticoat, between her hip and the waistband, hidden from sight, still keeping their secrets.

Sofia washes up, watching the washbasin refill, watching the sponge soak up the pinkish water and scrub the rusty smell off her skin, and the stains off the dress and linen she must hide from the servants. She thinks of friendship, of secrets. Of the price of goodness.

Mr. Cedric and Wormwood _were_ the Sea Monsters she had to fight at the Cove. There is no other explanation, no time for reassuring lies for, as much as her memories of the Well’s clearing are fuddled, her memories of the Cove, instead, are crystal clear. Unavoidable.

They―he and Wormwood, her beloved Royal Sorcerer and his grumpy raven, her friends, _her friends_ ―did all the horrible things that still give her nightmares. They almost started a war between humans and merpeople. They hurt Oona, and almost got everyone drowned. Mr. Cedric’s octopus arm left round red marks on her arm that stung for days. _And for what?_

She remembers, among all the rest, running to tell Mr. Cedric the whole story, so relieved that he, also, was safe and sound along with the rest of her family. And he _listened_! He listened, while all along, all along he had been the enemy she had struggled to defeat! _All this for a comb, for power?_ She shakes her head. _I don’t understand_.

And worst of all, she hadn’t seen it coming. At all. Not in a million years. _How could I be so blind?_ she scolds herself, her anger turning inwards, sickly and painful like a stomach-ache. No adult has ever been able to lie to her, not even her own mother. Sofia swats the water with both palms, letting it sting. _How can I trust my gut now? How can I trust it ever again?_ She needs to scream again―not in a pillow but out loud this time, louder than ever—she needs to _break_ something, to make enough mess that her mom will come check on her.

_What’s wrong, Sofia?_ she would ask immediately. _This is so unlike you!_ And then… and then? What else? Sofia couldn’t even tell her the truth, because she is still stuck keeping secrets for people that don’t deserve it. _I lied to my family for your sake, you horrible friend,_ she snaps at the imaginary Mr. Cedric before her, looking at her with his eyes so red, so full of guilt. _You liar!_

Wrapped in a towel, she strides to her closet to grab underwear and her first-aid kit. With enough luck, nobody has seen her dash bloodied through the castle as fast as her leg would let her. With enough luck, Dad is too busy to actually come help her, and will leave her alone instead. With enough luck, she will be able to keep herself in check, put on a face for the guests, and nobody will ask her nosy questions.

The vinegar stings on her forearms, just like it stung Mr. Cedric’s wounds when everything started. She replays it in her mind as she gets dressed, sliding long sleeves down on her bandaged arms, doing her hair up to hide that she didn’t have time to wash it properly. It is maddening to think of all she did for him—that, she remembers, her Amulet saved his life just today. To think of how much she tried to fight the world of injustice around him, to think of all she poured into their friendship, believing it was mutual, that he just needed a chance. And what did she have, the little girl from the village, but her good heart and her heap of chances to give? And she gave plenty, nurturing each with all of her love and care and admiration. And this is how he repays her?

It is wrong, she knows, she _knows_ , to expect kindness to be paid back. A friend is not a thing to consume, and kindness is not currency. It wouldn’t be kindness then, would it? It would be usury. But then… why would the Amulet reward her with magical powers when she does good things? _Is it me, then?_ she wonders, is she as power-hungry as a sorcerer, deep in her heart?

_I’m nothing like them_ , she thinks forcefully, with a viciousness that was never hers. _I’ll never be like them_.

There is a glow out of the corner of her eye. _Mr. Cedric’s sphere_ , she thinks, marching to the cart and throwing open the little curtain. It comes away in her hand, flimsy, and fills her with scalding rage all over again. She flings it aside and lifts her hand back to slap the sphere off the cart. Is she allowed this? The precious, ancient thing entrusted to her care would crash on the floor and break.

_Could I do it, if I wanted?_ Would the Amulet curse her for the damage, or for her hateful feelings? Never before the necklace had felt so heavy at her neck, not even when it put a frog in her throat. She deserved it, that time. She had been a horrible friend. Now, it’s Mr. Cedric that would deserve to get cursed― _How horrible_ , she thinks, ashamed of the thought itself. _Maybe I am just like them, after all._

Her hand hovers, trembles, balls up into a small fist, and then deflates. A white flag with five fingers, posing gently on the yellow sphere, pushing the destructive instinct away, answering the call.

“Hello?” Sofis sighs, her voice a little hoarse from crying.

“Oh, Princess Sofia!” Mr. Goodwyn gasps from the sphere, his voice barely containing something she isn’t sure is excitement or panic. “You still have the sphere and I was able to reach you, thank _goodness_!”

It is loud on his side of the call, a rhythmic background noise that sounds like galloping hooves, and carriage wheels pushed at full speed. She is about to mention it’s not a good time, but holds it. There must be something she still needs to do.

_And if the Amulet hasn’t sent me anyone, it means I can do it on my own,_ she thinks. _It means I have to._

* * *

 

“This is all going to turn out to be a big misunderstanding, I’m certain,” the young guards tells him, sounding anything but certain. “You’ll see.”

Cedric gives a nondescript mutter, avoiding the earnest eyes seeking his, avoiding their involuntary call for reassurance. He has none left for himself, much less to give away.

The boy looks down then, and locks the cell with a heavy sigh. He hangs the keychain to his belt, shaking his head like he cannot quite believe what he just had to do.

Cedric lets his hands hang limply outside the cell, off the horizontal bar running across the door’s width at waist-level. The guard fidgets a moment, beginning to step away, then pulls a small metal flask from his breast pocket, half-empty from the sound of it, and nudges it against his hand until his numb fingers close around it.

The water is lukewarm and it’s been in there a while, but it tastes like fresh mountain spring on Cedric’s parched tongue. He tilts back and upends the thing, shaking the last three drops out of it, like a man lost in the desert.

“Keep it―you know, for your eye?” Carl suggests, pointing at the side of his head. The other guard heaves a huff audible from the other side of the dungeon. Carl scrambles to grab the flask when Cedric brusquely hands it back to him.

“It isn’t cold,” the sorcerer deadpans, humiliated.

“It’s all I can do for now,” the guard says apologetically, splaying his arms in a helpless shrug. It’s all he can do _at all_ , they both know it. For all the pity he might feel, his alliance lies with the King. “Hang in there, alright?”

“Thank you, lad,” he manages anyway, if a little between his teeth, renewing his efforts to avoid eye contact. Holding the King’s gaze has depleted him.

The youth nods solemnly for a moment. Then, his gaze drops down and he stirs at the sight of the sorcerer’s bare feet on the chilling stone floor. He gestures for him to give him a moment, and starts to look around, in the other cells and around the benches where gaolers used to sit and play cards and jeer at the prisoners, decades past, in different times. Cedric leans his forehead against the iron bars, cold relieving the pressure just a little, and sighs.

“Leave it, Carl, we’ll be _late_ ,” barks the stern voice of the other guard, still audible over the rustling noise. “It’s a dungeon. You won’t find a blanket if you look for the next age.”

From the far left, Carl’s voice protests, “It’s freezing in here, man!” The rustling continues undeterred, as useless as it is stubborn. “He’s sick, do you want to find him dead in the morning?”

Cedric runs a hand over the torn fabric hanging off his arm, then to the undamaged part of his forehead. The lad keeps saying he’s burning up, but he doesn’t feel particularly warm in the slightest, nor tingly or weak in the throat. He feels weak all over, numb and still lightheaded from blood-loss―but not feverish.

“There’s the hay. The King said to leave it.”

_Leave it, Carl_ , Cedric thinks ironically, the side of his face stinging at the mention of Roland. _Before he finds something else to blame me for._

“Here, then,” Carl says, and passes something through the bars again. “Sorry, there’s nothing else and―sorry.”

And, back to him like a bad omen, the black cloak flops in Cedric’s unsteady grip. He readily blocks all thoughts that rush at him as he touches it, chaining them as poached wild beasts.

“Carl,” the other says, still firm but less than before. “Come along, I hear the carriages. They’ll be needing us in the ballroom.”

_Right_ , Cedric thinks, as the guards’ steps grow distant up the stone staircase. _Right, the damn feast._

He had all but forgotten it was tonight. All those nobles and gentry, meeting with villagers in unorthodox mingling, celebrating the Autumn Equinox and the abundance it brings, to be shared by all as friends and equals. He sneers. He can already see it, each group standing as far as possible from the others, the young bored, the adults confused, the old outraged. And he can see the lavishly decked table, a royal buffet that wouldn’t have been there without his efforts.

_The King said to leave it_. He is well used to going unrecognised, he thinks, exhaling in the cold air of the cell. But this goes beyond measure. At the top of the stairs, the iron door slams shut, and all falls to silence. _Hope he chokes on it_. _Each and every morsel,_ he thinks. The white steam coming out of his mouth measures his strength waning, breath after breath. _Just like his hapless father, the day he made him King_.

Who would have thought, he ponders, that the occasion in which Goodwyn would save the King’s life for the ninth time would be so mundane? Roland the First was already weak then, weak enough to cave in to the advice of his counsellors, and abdicate in favour of his son while he still had most of his wits about him.

Cedric too, as it’s customary, ascended to his charge that same night. Royal Sorcerer of Enchancia to King Roland II. He had waited for so long— _so long_ , that he thought such a day would never come, that he would grow old in his father’s shadow.

The unsinkable duo their fathers made—Roland the First and Goodwyn the Great, thick as thieves since boyhood—couldn’t have made a starker contrast with their sons, in their mid-twenties and never reconciled. The space between them couldn’t be heavier, so full of silence and ill-concealed jealousy, and the smell of old matrimonial lace.

He was supposed to make a little speech and perform, to show his willingness to work at court, to be formally introduced as part of the Royal Family. He had studied the transcripts from his father’s own introduction—a prodigy of seventeen, dazzling the crowd for two hours straight—and he didn’t feel ready, but he was eager to give it his best shot, anxious to prove himself. Goodwyn’s broad hands stayed clamped on him for the whole ceremony, as though by digging into his shoulders, he could make him stop shaking.

Then, right in the middle of Father introducing him, Roland the Old reached for a slice of ham and didn’t mind the string. He made sounds Cedric never wanted to hear come from a man again, and he could do nothing but clutch his wand and freeze―but Father was ready on his feet and quick to act.

In the blink of an eye, it was over, and the old King and old sorcerer started to laugh the incident off while everyone was still fretting, like the good friends they were. _What was that, the seventh time?_ Roland the Old chortled, washing the scare down with some wine. _The ninth, my friend!_ Goodwyn threw back grandiosely.

Then, the Old King said, _Goodwyn, why don’t you show us something nice? For old time’s sake._ And the crowd joined in, cheering, and his father seemed to deflate in relief at his side. There, Cedric felt it more starkly than ever: his father would have kept him in his shadow till the day he died, had it been up to him.

_Goodwyn_ , his mother said only, in a tone of warning, but Goodwyn pretended not to hear. She didn’t have a hand on Cedric’s shoulder, but he could still feel her talon-like grip in her voice.

_I wouldn’t want to bore the Young King_ , Goodwyn pretended to object. Cedric looked at Roland along with everyone else, but Roland was looking anywhere but him. He only straightened a bit in his chair, let the crowd ripen with suspense for a moment, then gave a courteous nod.

_It’s decided then! Dazzle us one more time, old friend_. And so Goodwyn did.

The crowd gasped and applauded. Cedric clung to his school wand as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.

As Father ended up performing the speech too, guests cheering and shedding tears at his departure, Cedric was given a paper scroll with his new title, and forgot in a corner. His mother came to put her arm around him, squeezing his elbows against his ribcage, but being in public made it a feat of endurance rather than comfort.

_Worry not, dear_ , she told him. _One day, all of this will be yours_. He didn’t dare reply, afraid he might vomit if he opened his mouth. She seemed to take that running joke―him becoming King―a little too seriously sometimes. He willed his shoulders to relax, and felt her grip soften in response.

_Only Mummy can make you all better_. He nodded absently, watching Father pat Roland the Young on the back, beaming at him and his beautiful bride, like the proudest of grandfathers.

The cloak shivers in his trembling hands, like a curtain touched by a slight breeze. The cell is cold and dark, as any cell should, with a low hanging ceiling and irregular walls carved into the rock itself, maddeningly cramped. Slowly, he makes his way to the bench and sits on the edge, to be under the lone, barred slit of a window.

He feels around him the vague, wide shadow of an absence that is neither of his parents. It hangs, unfathomable to his weary mind, black and damp like the clotted layer of dust covering every surface, like the old mouldy hay and the torches ruined by the brackish air. The cloak smells horrible, up close. Blood and sweat and dirt, just like his own clothes, and yet—he has to steer away from the thought, from how familiar it smells.

He is the only one there, the first one in a long while, alone with the echo of voices above, coming to him muffled and distorted by the irregular stone walls.

“Here’s what I get for trying to help,” he tells himself in a loud, angry hiss, clenching both fists on his knees. The muscles in his left arm spasm at the motion. “For trying to speak up, for― _ow_.”

Pain still pulses through his body as he moves, dull and unfocused, and it feels like it will never relent. He gathers the black cloak to his chest, bowing his forehead into it, sinking into the familiar scent trapped in it, sinking in the loss it represents. _I got myself in here with my own hands_.

“What a _bloody_ idiot.” He whispers, “What was I… what did I think I could _change_?”

The hinges of the narrow bench creak in protest when he scoots back a little, wrapping the cloak around the shivering wreck of his body, as though the dirty cloth could shield him, spare him his past and present sorrows.

“Why did I even think I would be strong enough to―I’m just not, I’ll never be, I’m not enough… to be good _or_ to be evil―” _I’m nothing_. “I should just―”

_Disappear_ , say the black walls caving in above him, echoing like a huge yawn. He pressed his eyes shut into the fabric, and when he opens them there are shapes on his retinas, monstrous mouths in the walls, actinia and barnacles, dry thunder outside reminiscent of gurgling rock, ready to gobble him up. He looks up at the window to clear his vision, blinking furiously.

The moon is up, and against the shivering silver light, he can see something moving. Something sliding, out beyond the bars of his cell, around the castle. His breath hitches. _Oh no, it cannot be_. He is afraid, but this is no mind trick―is it? He almost wishes it were.

After a while, he isn’t so sure of his perception anymore. He scoots back in a corner, pulling his heels up on the hard bench, trying not to see, not to think.

The incessant heavy slide grows louder. Gradually, even the barred moonlight grows blotted out.

* * *

 

The fine, pale blue cup exhales steam in Wormwood’s face, still too hot to touch, even with room-temperature milk added in.

He steps away from it, hopping towards the edge of the table. His dehydrated body calls for liquids of any form, the circlet of pain over his head getting heavier by the minute―but his instincts tell him to stay away, no matter how tempting it might be.

“Oh, how fussy,” Winifred the Wise hums. With a flick of her wand, she transmutes the tea into clear water. “Here. I was expecting a different form.”

“You’ll _excuse me_ , I wasn’t expecting this form either,” Wormwood quips back, even if she cannot hear him, and dunks his beak to drink. Most of all, the most unexpected form in the room remains her, Winifred herself.

As soon as Wormwood managed to reach the tower―a true struggle, with his still-aching wing―he realised his undersized claws could never get the window open. Too exhausted and upset to think of a solution, he just tucked his head under his good wing, and went to sleep right on the damp windowsill.

He didn’t get to rest much: at the first crack of thunder he jerked awake, struggling to find his footing on the wet stone, heart in his throat.

_The guests are arriving,_ he noted, looking down, trying to control his breathing. There is noise and bustle in the castle yard, although the parking carriages are much fewer than expected. _Predictable_ , he thought, as a second lightning flashed in the sky, _who would want to go out in this weather?_

While he was lost in thought, the window had opened behind him, making him almost fall back from the startle. And inside the tower, as though she were expected, waited Winifred the Wise―the real one, in blue jewellery and all her years―with tea for two ready on a little round table he had never seen before.

_My spell has been completed_ , she told him, without a doubt about his identity or his role or his ability to understand her words. _He did it, he succeeded, I could feel it_.

Wormwood flew in, desperate for an explanation, and the change in air density made him fall off his wings and tumble on the unfamiliar round table. It looked like Winifred had been working for a while in there… a few hours at least, judging by the thickness of the air. The entirety of Cedric’s equipment―cauldrons and beakers and mortars, all the things nobody had the time to clean or put away after they brewed the Grow-Fast potion―had been put to use.

He still hasn’t asked what is she doing, or why. He drinks the water, and watches Winifred peel an orange with her long blue nails, quick as knife-work. She parts the fruit down the middle, plucking away the bitter white filaments.

“Here’s a little one,” she says, lifting a smaller slice, barely an inch long, nestled in the crown of the fruit. She hands the morsel to the raven, like she were bestowing a great gift on him. He begrudgingly accepts it, famished.

From the desk, where three juvenile ravens are nonchalantly perched on the delicate distillation tubes, comes a muffled snicker. He does his best not to turn and glare. He immediately recognised the three that almost made him leap from the cliff, earlier in the afternoon. And now they’re here, hopping around in Cedric’s stuff, like they had any right to be there.

“Alright,” he bristles, gesturing his wing to them to make his intention clear even if Winifred can only hear his high-pitched jay voice. “What are _they_ doing in here? And how did you get in?”

The three puff their feathers in rude greeting, completely unfazed by his hostility. One of them―the female with hooded crow markings―needlessly relays his words to the sorceress, in human speech.

“Oh, of course,” Winifred says, waving a hand distractedly. “These are my eyes and ears. Just a couple stones I had lying around.”

“And we picked the lock, ‘course,” the she-raven adds. _Duh_ , caw the other two.

_Hell_ , Wormwood thinks, with genuine dismay. _Rock-ravens, of all things._

“I enchanted Misie with human speech, so she will help us talk,” Winifred explains, tapping the she-raven’s beak with the butt of her wand, making her _grok_ quietly. “Since you’re still recovering your strength.”

He wants to ask _how long_ he has to wait for this recovery, the matter somewhat pressing. It is maddening to not know if the spell actually worked, or if he and Cedric have failed completely. He hopes it explains his aching wing―itching to know, figuratively and literally. But he holds it: who knows how much he can trust the very person that put them into this whole Familiar predicament in the first place.

The three ravens ask aloud if he has fallen asleep, and he seethes. Is he going to have to trust the very person who brought _rock-ravens_ into his territory, for crying out loud? Rock-ravens, the fruit of Cedric’s favourite spell in the whole world, and Wormwood’s most despised one.

Albeit a fairly advanced transmutation spell, Cedric had been able to do it very young and on his first try―so he told Wormwood―and therefore it gained a special place in his heart. He would make dozens of them, he said, and help his favourite flock win its routine turf fights against the local seagulls, down by the sea. Rock-ravens, pitiful creatures with barely the lifespan to brush into the sky’s caress, before turning back to cold, lifeless stone.

Oh, he had lived in fear of the day Cedric would tell him that he, too, was no more than a stone he picked up one day on a whim. That there had been dozens before him, and there will be dozens more after him, the pitiful pebble he named _Wormwood_.

“By the way, flesh-raven,” Misie says, pulling him from his gloomy reverie, “you gave us a scare today at the cliff! That took _guts_ , lemme tell ya. Shows that u got ‘em.”

The other two join with a, “Yeah, impressive!” and a, “We aren’t really after your turf. We were just scouting. And sure, Mistress was gonna smash us if we killed you―but we couldn’t resist. You just get so _angry_.”

“I am angry in this very moment,” Wormwood warns them, hissing through his beak. They laugh, like he just told the funniest joke of the year, and to his own consternation, he already feels less murderous towards them.

“You are quite easy to play,” Winifred observes, eyeing how his ruffled feathers smooth back down. “No wonder that Well got to you so fast.”

Wormwood inhales long and steady, a couple of time. “So you knew,” he says, directly to Winifred even though he’ll have to wait for Misie to relay. “You knew what was going on here.”

“Not everything,” Winifred replies after a while. “Not even I have all the details. You seem to have stumbled into quite a mystery.”

“So you have nothing useful for us,” he says, so rudely that the she-raven shoots him a warning glance, and omits. He eats an orange slice, and it takes him three entire bites. The water in it seems to rush straight to his head, replenishing his blood-flow almost instantly. His mind clears, bit by bit.

“Wasn’t I supposed to die, after my _initiation_?” he pushes himself to ask. “We were both toeing the Threshold, there. We were told I had to give my life to save Cedric’s, and I did. So why am I _stuck_ like this, instead?”

“Are you that opposed to being given a second chance?” Winifred gives a noncommittal shrug. “Most probably, Cedric interrupted the initiation at the right time to keep both of you alive. As a result, your current form is compact, to save energy, and promote faster recovery.” She pushes the rest of the peeled orange towards him. “Give it a few hours, and you should be able to shift again, to whatever form suits your needs.”

He eats another slice in silence, chewing absentmindedly though this form has no use of it. If the thing was interrupted, what will Cedric’s conditions be when he wakes up…?

“It’s a pity I will not get to see your human form, though. I have grown quite curious. They tell me you make quite the remarkable specimen.” The glance he receives makes Wormwood feel quite bare under his black feathers, and in a brief moment he thinks he understands why humans put clothes on. “I always knew my son could… think big, so to speak.”

“I—no, Cedric didn’t—the Well transformed me,” he splutters, feeling the heat flare around his beak, without knowing why.

Winifred shakes her head, interlacing her bejewelled hands around her cup. “No, dear, the human form of a Familiar takes shape during the initiation. I am willing to bet yours has stayed the same. It has proven to be both efficient _and_ easy on the eye, after all.”

The ravens whoop briefly, but Wormwood fails to register part of her words, looking away. _Efficient_? It didn’t prove to be much efficient, since he wasn’t even able to—

“Easy on the—what?” he blurts out then, incredulous. “Ma’am, Cedric… _despises_ my human form.”

Winifred snorts delicately, and he wants to claw his face off for opening his mouth.

“I know my son, dear,” she says. “Why do you think I never suggested he makes his way into the royal bed, back in the day? A legitimate heir is certainly an easier claim to the throne than good old usurpation, don’t you think?” A pause, and a gaze that grows distant, almost rarefied. “But he’s never been one for these courtly intrigues… and no Queen would do for him, anyway. A mother knows.”

“It would have been forbidden, in the first place,” Wormwood argues; he keenly feels that some layer of meaning is going over his head, some new human mystery escaping him, and he doesn’t like it in the slightest. “If history serves, nothing good has ever come from mixing the royal bloodline with ours.”

_Ours_ , he said, without thinking. He sighs inwardly, bracing, but the sorceress makes no remark. Maybe Misie took pity on him, and opted to censor his foolishness.

“History has legitimized far worse things, dear,” Winifred says, her eye glinting. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. Those plans are old and buried, that poor barren girl died in childbirth, and what can you do with this useless peasant Queen, anyway? A long line of wasted opportunities, nothing else. If I have any consolation, at least, the progeny for the tower is safe in Cordelia’s hands.”

For a few moments, Wormwood is at a loss for words.

“You’ve put your children to good use, I see,” he says in the end, clipped.

Winifred starts, “Well, goodness, why else would I…?” she trails off, clearing her throat. “My children are a great blessing. They are a wealth of possibility, extended over my own lifetime. They are… my greatest treasure.”

Something about her sentence makes his skin crawl, rising the short mantel of feathers at his neck. In his mind’s eye he sees Cedric, calling the contraption of the week _my most prized possession_ , with the exact same inflection. He shudders.

“So, you are finally a Familiar, dear Wormwood,” she says conversationally, derailing his train of thought. “I’ve waited so long for this moment. I suppose you have many questions, and I should tell you now that I don’t have all the answers. Familiar Magic is a narrow field.”

“About that,” he starts. “We’ve been told that I’m not… a magic parasite anymore. Can I do magic on my own, now? Without Cedric dropping every time I flick a wand?”

The sorceress chuckles. “Such a pragmatic bird,” she says, giving him a poignant look. “Indeed, once you have a wand to flick, you can use your own magic.”

“And you don’t happen to have a spare to lend me, do you?” he asks, almost tiredly.

Winifred, of course, shakes her head. “I never travel with more than one wand on me. It isn’t safe.” With a cols, displeased tilt of her mouth, she gestures to the empty bin the spare wands usually occupy. “I was counting on Cedric to keep his stack intact.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” Wormwood says, in a tone that makes Misie roll her eyes at him. He tries something else. “How can you be sure that a Familiar is able to use magic independently?”

“Because the pact between warlock and Familiar is based on mutual benefit, not on consumption,” she says. A shiver runs down his back. “You didn’t drink away life-force during your Initiation: through contact with your warlock’s blood, you were able to re-establish a balance of energy in both your systems. Which… wasn’t much in the first place, but still enough to drag the both of you back from the Threshold.”

“This sounds like a lot of personal deductions,” he says, sceptical.

Without defensiveness, Winifred replies, “I am confident in my reasoning. But as I said, the recorded literature is indeed very scarce.”

“Naturally,” he sneers. “What better predicament to put your only son in, than one you can’t even do research on.”

“Things are what they had to be,” Winifred answers, but her eyes are somewhere else, so far above the tower, above all of them. “How they were _supposed_ to go, once Goodwyn’s interference has been removed. In the end, it was all for good.”

At her words, the horrible vision he saw on the seastack surfaces in his memory. Then, he sees it continue, as though he had been there. A child with white witch-streaks, afraid to go outside again, biting his knuckles until the skin thickens, tough and leathery, ready to crack just short of bleeding in the winters to come. His mother fits his first Apprentice gloves on him, to make him stop biting.

Wormwood cannot imagine what courage―what foolishness it took that frightened child to climb that hollow trunk and save him. Or maybe, just like Wormwood could barely stand to watch that vision, Cedric too couldn’t leave another child to weep alone in the dark.

“When we found you, I recall how instinct guided Cedric precisely where he needed to be. And I knew, then, that my debt to Artemisia was repaid, and that fate was on my side.”

_May I keep him?_ Says the small voice, from a buried memory. Where had it been, all these years? _You must_ , Winifred’s voice answers. _He has no one but you, now._

He is awash with forgotten memories. He knows, now, that at the age he fell from his nest he wouldn’t have survived. In his very first memory, he knows now, Cedric’s high-pitched voice notes _, Look, mother, he has green eyes_. He remembers the nest-like warmth of the crook of his elbow, where he kept him tucked for the trip home. He remembers the huge, too-slow human heartbeat, close enough to be life-giving. He remembers how it picked up at his mother’s words.

He would have never imagined, at the time, that he would grow to be given life by the blood in that heart. The hands had always been the ones to feed him, until he was strong enough to peck for himself, and then some more out of pure enjoyment. They ate together, the scrawny child with the juvenile raven cawing impatiently on his shoulder, sharing dishes, picking around favourite morsels, developing the same tastes.

Wormwood recalls the first fall of his life: as they both grew stronger, they started wandering the woods together, adventuring. Wormwood learnt to grip securely with his talons, but never enough to hurt; Cedric lost the fear of the ground opening under him, won over by curiosity. Winifred would send them on missions to pick ingredients―for the cauldron and for the stove alike. Ragweed, and gooseberries for a pie. Hemlock, and plump violets to simmer in sugar until encased in a perfect, sweet crystal. Death caps, and glossy chestnuts to roast on the fire.

The chestnuts were always his favourite. Sticky young leaves and spiked pods that never pricked Cedric’s fingers. The glossy fruits, usually triplets and sometimes not. Here’s a baby, Cedric would say, and give the small, crescent-like nut to his raven, to exercise his young bill.

He shakes the memories off himself, sure that if he were in his human form his eyes would be damp. The longing ache in his heart has no place under Winifred’s cold eye.

_What will I do with him, Mother?_ Cedric asked during that first walk. _You’ll make him your Familiar_ , his mother answered. The child laughed. He had a gap in his smile back then, an eyetooth that would take a while to grow in. It gave him a little, endearing lisp, and lots of trouble enunciating his spells.

_But why, Mother? I’m a Royal Sorcerer, not a witch_ , he said, Goodwyn-like patronizing mixed with genuine puzzlement.

_So he will be with you forever, and make you strong enough to be King._

“What I don’t get,” he starts, “is why you have started this at all. There are easier ways to get a good bond between a sorcerer and their animal companion. I would know, everyone at school had one.”

“None like you.” Winifred smirks. “You must understand I haven’t _decided_ to start anything. I simply observed, and followed suit. Animal companions are commonplace, but _true_ Familiars are a rare find. You don’t see that many witches with them anymore, nowadays.” A pause. ”Some time had to pass, but my intuition was clear that fate would allow Cedric his chance to face his fear, and win.”

“And you think he’s won?” Wormwood asks, bitter.

Cedric’s mother can give him nothing better than a shrug. “He can never win. Not truly. Just like my berk of a husband, he has some good in him… but it takes more than heart, to be good. It takes talent, it takes perfection. And he… is gullible, and anxious, not really the strong sort, never was. The truth is, the path of evil is the only place to hide that kind of flaw.”

With Winifred laying her true thoughts bare, he feels like he understands more of Cedric now. It is satisfactory and sad in equal shares. Most of all, it’s infuriating. _Even his own mother doesn’t see him_.

“He is nothing like that. You don’t know as much as you think,” he says, bristling.

Misie just looks at him tiredly. He intensely wishes his form was restored, so he could speak for himself. He sees them now, the intentions of Cedric’s parents clear as charted territory on a map. Goodwyn misguided attempt at protection, and Winifred’s ultimate, indomitable desire to rule. Everything has its place in Goodwyn’s world. A wife to tame and reconcile a rival Clan. A son for the tower, a daughter for the bloodline. Everything has its role, and doesn’t stray. Goodwyn’s line, they take care of kingdoms and obey their kings, but Winifred’s line… they have higher aims, and lower means.

“You,” he says, addressing the she-raven directly. “Who are you trying to protect? It isn’t my sorcerer the one with flaws to hide, here. This is nothing compared to what she did in the past, and if she could bear to set a spell so binding, she can bear the consequences, too.”

“You know I cannot tell her that,” Misie finally says, in raven-speak. “She couldn’t bear the thought of having harmed her beloved son.”

“You think she really cares? You think this is love?” he asks. The coldness her Imago had shown towards their life and death comes to mind, clear as sugar crystal. “This is control. And what she can’t bear is being dead wrong.”

“I… will admit this truth,” Misie says, bowing her head minutely, “but these are human dealings, and I cannot speak it.”

“Oh, I will speak it myself,” Wormwood declares, scoring the table with his small claws. “Stay assured.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you need to roast your mother-in-law, but the translator isn't having it.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in season 2, between the Mystic Meadows episode and before The Ghostly Gala. Intended to fit with canon as much as possible, but I've taken some liberties with the characters and with how magic works.


End file.
